


A World Over

by Anonymous



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Blood and Injury, Childbirth, Genderfluid Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Political plots, Post Season 2, Pregnancy, Trans Character, Trans Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex, childbirth complications, graphic childbirth, time skip, very minor Yozak/Conrart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25328485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Fifteen years ago, when the boxes were closed and King Yuuri returned to Earth, it was Wolfram von Bielefeld that took his place. If not him, then someone else. Someone who might falter, someone who might fail, someone who might take Yuuri’s memory and his efforts and tarnish them.Now, with political ties strained and peace less assured, a miraculous reunion ensures nothing will ever be the same again. For better or worse.
Relationships: Wolfram von Bielefeld & Conrart Weller, Wolfram von Bielefeld/Shibuya Yuuri
Comments: 49
Kudos: 121
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is absolutely a labor of love, pun intended, that will feature: vague political plotting, sex (including vaginally with a trans man), trans pregnancy, childbirth, blood and lots of hurt/comfort.  
> I will do my best to post relevant chapter-specific warnings before each one for ease of reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter by far, but I stopped it where I did to set the scene from Wolfram's perspective before things get really interesting. That said, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Nothing graphic or deserving of warning in this chapter.

The royal wedding was particularly grandiose. Günter had spent many long months agonizing over every insignificant detail himself, with a great smile on his face and tears in his lashes. Lord von Christ had always had a flair for the dramatics, but none had ever seen him quite like he was those months, outwardly frazzled but full of such purpose as he tore the castle apart in his hunt for the most artful arrangements, most delectable menu, most exquisite fabrics. No price was too high and no master too skilled for his tastes, which he kept guarded close to his breast against even Lady Cheri’s indignant insistence.

As much as Wolfram had wanted to offer his opinion on the proceedings, and to place his own mark on even a minor detail, he had wisely kept out of Günter’s way. Many an onlooker balked at the ease in which he conceded, but Wolfram had plenty else to capture his attention and many meetings with the royal tailor to craft the ideal garment to be worn during the ceremony. It all left him feeling tired and stretched thin.

So it was that on the day of the wedding, even His Majesty was surprised by the elaborate display. It truly was fitting of royalty, with its artful arrangements, delectable menu and exquisite fabrics. Günter’s months of hard work had paid off, the results of his labors a truly elaborate and breathtaking affair. Even the other noble and royal attendants had all seemed to agree. 

The decorations might have stolen his breath first, but it truly was the bride who left Wolfram the most speechless.

Günter had forced his hand into her dress and elaborate stylings as well, but the accents and hair were clearly influenced by her and his own mother. He had to fight to keep the tears from his eyes as he held his hand to her and watched the wide way she smiled. Her brown eyes had never looked so full of love.

Princess Greta was married to a perfectly lovely noblewoman on a beautiful spring day. The ceremony really was quite beautiful; everything Yuuri’s daughter deserved. That was probably what Günter had been thinking, anyway. It was exactly what Wolfram had thought too, as he held the hands of her and her beloved together and watched the way they smiled at one another.

Wolfram played his part as the 28th Maou of Shin Makoku when he declared them married, and his part as Greta’s father when he held her in his arms too few days later and begged her to write him as soon as she made it to her new home. Shin Makoku didn’t need a ruler, and could never accept a human on the throne, but the once destroyed kingdom of Zorashia did and could. Greta would be happy there. The people there had been awaiting her return for so long, and were struggling to rebuild what they had lost. She was their hope, their purpose. They would accept her, love her.

They would do more for her than he had ever been able to. He, who had struggled somewhere between sole ruler of a country and single parent.  
“I promise, Papa Wolf,” Greta said, tears in her beautiful brown eyes but a smile wide on her face. Wolfram tried to ignore the worry reflected in those tear-filled eyes. It wasn’t right to have the daughter worry for the father, and yet that was how it had been for years. 

There was an unoccupied space beside them as they said their goodbyes. There had been an unoccupied space beside them for fifteen years. When Greta glanced at the space then, as she would sometimes do when she was younger, Wolfram forced himself to speak.

“He would be proud,” he said, in a voice he hoped was not too strangled by grief, and, “He loves you more than there are stars in the sky.”

Greta’s smile was as wide and genuine as always, but there was something somber in her beautiful brown eyes as she stepped closer for one last squeeze. It felt like she was the one comforting him, the daughter worrying for the father. Always worrying for her father. Wolfram had never deserved her.

Wolfram watched the carriage that took her away until long after it had fully disappeared. There was an empty space beside him.

“She’ll be a great queen,” Conrart said, voice proud and hand warm where it settled on Wolfram’s shoulder as he stepped into the space. Wolfram nodded once, not trusting himself to speak.

Greta had grown up to be a capable and truly wonderful young woman, Wolfram’s biases as her father aside. It had been a privilege to watch her grow up, and to have a hand in the woman she had become. But she was so very human. At 23, she already matched him for height. At 23, she looked older than the man that called himself her father. He’d watched her grow before his very eyes, and Wolfram’s heart ached to think of how much she would grow and age where he could no longer watch.

Soon, it would be more than distance that separated them. 

Without a word, Wolfram tore himself away from the courtyard. Conrart did not follow him.

==

Everything changed the day the boxes were closed. With Shinou’s passing and Soushu destroyed, it was only natural. No longer could their original king converse with the living, leaving the mazoku of Shin Makoku without a clear and ordained path for the first time in 4,000 years.

With no deity to guide them, they would naturally turn to their Maou. But King Yuuri was gone, returned to his unreachable homeland the very same day. 

So Shin Makoku was leaderless, rudderless, all but hopeless.

The sting of Yuuri’s departure was deep and painful for all. He represented the very peace he had fought for, and their allies would not be so easily trusting of a replacement when their allegiance had been to the man himself and his radical ideals. But without Shinou’s guidance there was no obvious replacement at all. The future of Shin Makoku, and of the world itself, seemed precarious and dark.

For a time, it stayed that way. The figureheads of the noble families met and discussed for hours at a time, debating and arguing over the future of their great and hopeless nation with no end in sight. Perhaps they believed King Yuuri not truly gone. Perhaps they held out hope that he would return as he always did; days, weeks, or months late, but surely soon. 

But days and then weeks and then months passed, and Yuuri did not return. Their allied nations called to them for news, for help, for action in the aftermath of their supernatural conflict. There could be no more discussions, no more buying time for a king that had abandoned them. 

So when the ten noble families turned to Wolfram von Bielefeld, third son of the 26th Maou and fiancé of the 27th, he had no grounds to refuse. If not him, then someone else. Someone who might falter, someone who might fail, someone who might take Yuuri’s memory and his efforts and tarnish them.

And thus, Wolfram von Bielefeld, pretty third son of the 26th Maou and abandoned fiancé of the 27th, became the 28th Maou of Shin Makoku.

It had been fifteen years since the 27th Maou departed. Fifteen years as Maou, thirteen more years than Yuuri had even ruled, and still Wolfram felt as if he was just filling in; wearing shoes too big and stumbling for it.

“Your Majesty,” even Günter called him now. Even Anissina. Gwendal.

“Your Majesty,” Conrart said with a bow as he entered the royal office. Wolfram’s office. “The delegates from Shou Shimaron have arrived. They’ve been seen to their guest chambers and request the night to rest from the journey, but have assured they will be prepared for the conference tomorrow.”

Wolfram placed down his quill. He had been dreading the arrival of King Saralegui’s ambassadors since the meeting was announced, and felt no more prepared for the upcoming peace talk than he had originally. Wolfram was decent enough at politics, having been raised at court, but peace treaties had never been his forté. Neither were they King Saralegui’s, or so he’d been told. Shou Shimaron was still entirely at Dai Shimaron’s behest, and Wolfram knew this meeting was likely nothing more than a show to prove Shin Makoku unwilling to cooperate with outrageous demands.

“Understood,” Wolfram said, and leaned back in his chair. He flexed his hand absently and rubbed at his temple with the other, gaze drifted out the window.

Conrart walked closer to pause at his desk, expression mild as ever but eyes slightly tense. He often looked at Wolfram like that, seemingly mild but with some emotion lurking underneath that Wolfram consciously did not dissect for fear of what he might find.

“Wolfram,” Conrart said, almost disapproving. Worried as usual. “Perhaps you should rest.”

Wolfram looked at the stack of papers on his desk. It was considerably smaller than it had been in the early light, but high enough still that looking at it made Wolfram’s eyes fatigue and temple pulse.

“Perhaps,” Wolfram said. He knew he’d been working particularly hard of late, forcing his mind as blank as he could make it in the wake of Greta’s marriage and subsequent relocation. “When I’ve finished.”

“Wolfram,” Conrart said again, in that brotherly tone he reserved for when they were alone, “Allow Gwendal the pleasure of monotony, he was seeking a reason to excuse himself from Lady Anissina tonight.”

Wolfram held Conrart’s gaze for several stubborn moments before he was forced to relent with a sigh. The hand at his temple desired to reach down to massage at the growing ache in his chest but he refused to do so while Conrart watched, lest he be whisked off to Gisela. The very last thing he needed was the attention and worry of the entire castle while snakes in Shou Shimaron’s colors wandered the halls. 

“Fine,” he relented, though grudgingly, and allowed Conrart to subtly lead him from the room. 

“I believe I’ll have a bath before I retire,” Wolfram said, and Conrart relayed the request to a passing maid. Bathing would help him relax, at least, though he knew his brother would position himself stubbornly at the door for as long as it took to make sure Wolfram did indeed retire back to his chambers.

The Maou’s private bath was ostentatious in its size and grandeur, but Wolfram hardly batted an eye for it now. He’d been bathing in its carefully regulated waters since he was a child, the privileged prince first and fiancé second. Now that he himself was Maou, he couldn’t help but find the excess almost oppressive. Empty, and lonely for it.

Wolfram looked at the slightly steaming water and imagined it as it might have been fifteen years ago, Yuuri positioned shyly away but still close enough to speak of the days’ troubles as the comfortable water washed them away. Greta, sometimes, would join them, laughing as she made a game of happily avoiding them as one father tried to hand her the shampoo for her hair.

Where once a family had been, now there was nothing.

Just him, alone.

Wolfram’s breath was shaky as he stepped into the water and pushed back the memories. He reached to remove the robe from his shoulders, now less than eager for a long soak, but a sudden movement underfoot startled him so badly he slipped on the step and tumbled into the bath with an undignified noise of alarm instead. And then, impossibly, he was being sucked down, as if there was a whirlpool in the depth of the bath.

He barely had time to consider the strangely familiar pull of majutsu before the darkness consumed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15 years passing puts character ages about here:  
> Wolfram is 100 (which is equivalent to about 20 in "human years")  
> Greta is 25


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven years after the boxes are closed, Yuuri's world is turned upside down. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: 
> 
> \- Sex, including vaginally with a trans man—whose genitals are referred to as: clit/cock (used interchangeably), and cunt.  
> \- A probably uncomfortable conversation about gender by an ignorant (but well meaning) cis guy and a trans guy whose cultural language doesn't include the term 'transgender'. (that said, the convo isn't particularly long but it felt necessary considering the stress on gender in the source material)

Everything changed the day the boxes were closed; the day Soushu was destroyed and Shinou was freed. That fact was especially true for Shibuya Yuuri, who had spent every day thereafter contemplating just how different everything actually was while the world around him moved forward as if nothing had happened at all.

Because it hadn’t. Because that day, the one that marked such an important and world-changing event, and consequently a major turning point in his own life, mattered only to him and to people a world way. People he had turned his back on. People he would never see again.

Yuuri ran a hand through his hair and groaned.

“Stop thinking about it,” he muttered aloud as he turned the key in the lock and let himself into his apartment.

It was modest, as far as apartments went; sensibly sized, sparsely furnished, hardly decorated. In truth, it was actually a little depressing, but Yuuri lived alone and had never been one to collect things. What decorations he did keep were given, either by his family or Murata, who all agreed that his apartment hardly looked lived in. Yuuri didn’t see why it mattered, but he dutifully displayed their tokens anyway.

“You don’t even hang photographs!” His mother had admonished a few visits ago, and had rectified the slight by presenting him with more than a few framed photographs the last time she’d come by. Most of them he’d expected: family photos of the four of them, a shot of his parents before he’d been born, an admittedly adorable picture of himself and Shori from when they’d been kids, and even one with Murata who looked way too excited at having been included. 

It was the others that had forced his mouth dry and his eyes wide—the pictures from when his retainers had come with him to Earth. A group shot of the lot of them looking out of place in their borrowed clothes, a more natural looking one of the three brothers who couldn’t look any more different, a cheerful one of himself and Conrad. 

But it was the photo of himself and Wolfram that had made him pause longest, heart constricting uncomfortably in his chest. The likeness of Wolfram smiled, green eyes wide and sparkling like a valiant prince even in the silly vest he’d borrowed from Yuuri’s closet. Yuuri, by contrast, wore an expression more like a grimace, and was caught forever in the act of removing the arm Wolfram had wrapped around his shoulders when his mother pulled out the camera. He looked disgruntled and uncomfortable in what would have been a really wonderful photo.

Yuuri closed the door to his apartment with more force than he’d meant to, as if the sound of it slamming shut might startle the image from his brain. Why was he still thinking about this? His mother had given him those stupid pictures months ago, and he’d hidden them away to collect dust under his bed the moment she’d left.

Why did they have to keep haunting him like this?

“Keep yourself distracted,” Murata had suggested once, in a way that didn’t seem very sympathetic, as if he wasn’t just as affected by the ghosts of their other life, “Try getting a girlfriend!”

But it didn’t matter how distracted Yuuri was. The photos, and the people in them, haunted him every day.

Yuuri dropped his keys in the dish by the door and discarded his bag in its usual place. 

It had been seven years since the day his life changed; since the boxes were closed and Soushu was destroyed and Shinou was freed and the other world was sealed off from him forever and his other life had just been _completed_ like the video game he’d once considered it to be. The main boss had been defeated, the final level cleared. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d walked out of a lake in Switzerland, it may as well have never happened at all.

Once they’d made it back to Japan, all that had been left to do was to move on with his life. Finish high school, apply to college, break into a career and find a wife to settle down with. It all seemed so positively normal, ordinary. Hadn’t he wanted normal? Yearned for ordinary?

He hadn’t expected it to be quite so boring.

The modesty of his apartment really reflected the modesty of his life. Seven years since he’d quit being king, and at twenty-four Shibuya Yuuri was a respectful salaryman. He’d finished high school, he’d gone to college. Shori had set him up with a job that apparently had something to do with supporting the Maou of Earth but that really just felt like mediocrity.

He hadn’t found a wife, but he’d had a few girlfriends. Perfectly respectable women he’d met in college mostly, with long, pretty black hair and nice enough dispositions. Girls he should have felt happy to bring home to his mother, but ones he hadn’t been with long enough to feel that desire. Once, he’d dated a blonde foreigner he’d met in the halls of his campus, whose blue eyes could have been green in the right light, but whose hair was a tad too long and whose personality was entirely too mild for his liking.

When he’d broken up with her, she had smiled a perfectly genuine smile as she clasped his hands and wished him luck with the person he was yearning for.

He’d thought her words annoyingly cryptic for weeks, had obsessed over them just as long.

It wasn’t fair, he thought as he sat himself down on his decently comfortable couch, that he’d realized his feelings too late. Because that’s what she’d meant, of course, no matter how many weeks, or maybe months, he’d tried to deny it. That his heart hadn’t been in it, that he’d been comparing her without meaning to, that he’d been trying so very hard to look through her to someone else.

Wolfram. It had been nine years since they’d first met, and in that time even he had had to stop denying his feelings. Was he gay? Yuuri still didn’t think so. He’d dated boys, too, in the seven years he’d spent trying, and failing, to get over his far-off fiancé. Perfectly respectable boys who smiled and snaked strong arms around his waist and who listened to him prattle on about sports without complaint. He hadn’t wanted to introduce any of them to his parents either, hadn’t dated any of them too long. 

They’d all been an experiment, as much as admitting that felt so unintentionally cruel; a way for him to prove once and for all what his sexuality actually was.

‘Not gay’, he’d settled on. ‘Not straight’, either. It didn’t matter what the gender of his partner was, because none of them could compare to Wolfram: the boy who yelled at him and pushed him but who fearlessly faced death for him. The boy who was more beautiful and courageous and loyal than any other person he’d ever met. A perfect prince straight out of a fairytale.

There was no getting over a person like Wolfram. It didn’t matter that they’d never truly dated, never kissed, hardly touched. How could anyone ever compare?

With a sigh, Yuuri pulled the blue pendant into his hand, the one that had come to represent all of Shin Makoku and the people that lived there, the one that probably was what had made moving on so impossible. How could he get over everything, get over the land he’d defended, the friends he’d made, the daughter he’d adopted, the boy he’d fallen in love with, if he kept the reminder of them around his neck at all times? 

Seven years, and Yuuri still hadn’t decided if he’d made the right choice. 

“I really am a wimp,” he said to himself as he let the pendant fall back into place and stood.

Seven years, and he couldn’t bring himself to part with it or his memories. Maybe he’d just grow old and filled with regret, unable and unwilling to move on. Maybe that was what he deserved for turning his back on people that cared about him.

The rest of his night passed much the same way as every other night before it: he prepared a lackluster meal for one, the sort of meal one could find readymade at the corner store for better or worse, ran for himself a bath in his entirely too tiny bathroom, and then plopped himself down in front of his moderately sized TV to watch a match of the televised baseball tournament he’d been following.

Sometime through the match, his phone rang, and Yuuri spent half an hour trying to convince his mom that he was eating enough and doing fine and didn’t need her to come by the next day with any more curry. He was just starting to feel relatively confident that she wouldn’t be dropping by uninvited the next morning when he heard a peculiar sound from his bathroom. He wasn’t sure what could have fallen, but it was a decent enough excuse to hurry his mom off the phone.

And then he was in the doorway, phone falling from limp fingers and jaw dropping in surprise because there was a person in his bathroom, sitting soaked in the cooling bathwater he hadn’t bothered to drain and looking as flabbergasted and out of place as Yuuri felt.

It had been seven years, but Yuuri didn’t need the photographs hidden underneath his bed to perfectly remember the blond boy that sat stunned in his bathtub. He’d dreamt about him nearly every night of those long seven years, obsessing over his youthful face and expressive green eyes. 

“Wolf?” he whispered, stunned, and it was the sound of his voice that seemed to break Wolfram from whatever spell had taken hold of him.

Eyes locked on his, Wolfram stood too fast and slipped on the wet porcelain of his narrow tub. Yuuri rushed to him as Wolfram pitched forward with a strangled noise of alarm, and caught him by his wet shoulders.

Then wide green eyes were looking into his own, so close that Yuuri could have counted each long blond eyelash if he’d had the mental process for it. He knew he must have looked ridiculous, with his mouth open and his eyes wide and his hands trembling slightly where they supported Wolfram’s body by his soaking wet shoulders.

An equally wet hand reached up to brace against his chest, and Yuuri forgot how to breathe.

“You’re here,” Yuuri said, dumbly.

Damp fingers gripped the front of his shirt.

“Yuuri,” Wolfram practically choked, as his beautiful green eyes literally sparkled, and the sound of his voice, and especially the sound of Yuuri’s name in that voice, broke something in him.

And then they were kissing, and it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Yuuri cupped one wet cheek in a shaking hand, and slid the other around a sopping wet waist and kissed Wolfram for all he was worth, lips and the barest hint of tongue, and even though Wolfram was clearly surprised and unprepared, it was the best kiss he’d ever had.

Finally, Wolf’s lips parted as his arms wound around him, pulling Yuuri closer like a man drowning at sea. Yuuri tugged him forward, insistent, and then Wolfram was clinging for a different reason as he lost his footing on the slippery porcelain again.

Yuuri clutched him close, and laughed in a way that no doubt sounded breathless and surprised and bordering on hysteria.

“You’re here,” he said again, and pressed his face into the wet groove of Wolfram’s neck, against the sopping wet robe on his shoulder and the hair plastered against his skin.

“Yuuri,” Wolfram said again, clutching him back just as desperately, “I don’t understand you.”

It was only then that Yuuri remembered that Wolfram was speaking a different language, one he hadn’t had to speak or listen to for seven years. He laughed again, into Wolfram’s neck, and nodded.

“Sorry,” he said, in his own rusty lilt of the mazokan language, “I forgot.”

“Still a wimp, I see,” Wolfram said, and Yuuri pulled out of his shoulder to flash him a smile at the familiar insult that Wolfram could never fully erase the endearment from. Seven years, and he’d thought for sure no one would ever use it again.

“I can’t believe you’re here. How are you here?”

Wolfram shook his head, clearly just as confused.

“I was getting into the bath, and then…it was different than any time I’ve ever come before, as if there was a whirlpool sucking me into this world. I have no clue why or how it happened.”

Yuuri nodded. Even though it was the first time Wolfram had come here with that method, it sounded uncomfortably familiar to him. What he didn’t get was why, or even how, because Shinou’s disappearance should have meant the end of his magic. The gods knew Yuuri had tried everything he could think of to trigger the journey himself, so why was Wolfram suddenly able to come?

As important as that question felt, it wasn’t nearly as important as the fact that, no matter the how or why, Wolfram was there. Yuuri felt like he was dreaming, and part of him worried that if they focused too much on the logistics something or someone would notice an error had been made and Wolfram would be sucked right back.

Suddenly anxious, Yuuri encouraged Wolfram from the tub with insistent hands, and braced his weight as Wolf stumbled over the lip.

Removing his hands from Wolfram took a lot of willpower, but he managed it just long enough to fetch a towel, and then busied himself drying Wolfram’s hair.

Pale hands swatted at him as Wolfram took the towel and pressed it to his flaming face.

“I’m perfectly capable,” Wolfram grumbled, and Yuuri couldn’t help but grin.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m just…I can’t believe you’re here! I—clothes! Let me get you dry clothes. Your robe is soaked, just leave it somewhere and I’ll get you something.”

Yuuri fled to his bedroom, heart hammering in his chest and hands shaking as he eagerly fetched a clean pair of pajamas from his wardrobe. He was so worried that when he returned Wolfram would be gone, and that paranoid part of him needed to get back as soon as physically possible, to prove that it hadn’t been a dream or a hallucination and Wolfram really was standing in his bathroom.

Another part of him was finally realizing that he’d just kissed Wolfram for the first time ever, and then left without saying a single word about it. That part of him faltered, eyes wide as a blush stole across his face. It had been seven years, and when last they’d seen each other Yuuri had still been holding Wolfram at arm’s length, pushing down his own feelings and denying he’d even done it. Who was to say Wolfram even still liked him? That Wolfram hadn’t finally realized just how ordinary Yuuri actually was and found someone better?

He had to force himself to take a shaky breath and steel his nerves before he could return to the bathroom, but when he did he was relieved to see Wolfram still standing right where he’d left him, soaked robe discarded on the floor and a long towel wrapped around his shoulders in its place.

Yuuri couldn’t help but smile, relieved, as he handed Wolfram the dry clothes. As much as he wanted to stare, he forced his eyes away. 

“I’ll, um, let you get dressed,” he said, strangled, and fled from the room without another word.

It took barely any time at all to put a pot of water on the stove for tea, but Yuuri still found himself anxiously watching the bathroom door. What if Wolfram got back in the tub and left because of the kiss? What if he decided to do it because of how wimpy Yuuri was being about it after the fact? What if he really had never been there at all, and instead was just a vivid figment of Yuuri’s imagination? What if it had all just been an elaborate and cruel dream?

Without even realizing he’d moved at all, Yuuri found himself in front of the bathroom door, hand poised to knock just as it opened and Wolfram appeared in the doorway. They both startled to see each other, and for the first time Yuuri realized he was looking down at Wolfram, taller than him by inches. Seeing Wolfram look up at him like that, through the long perfect lashes that framed his bright green eyes, made Yuuri swallow around a suddenly dry throat.

“Sorry,” he practically stammered, and backed away from the door, “I put a pot of water on for tea, to help warm you up.”

Wolfram looked so good, with his hair messy from being toweled dry and his cheeks dusted slightly pink. Yuuri’s pajamas were too long for him, and Wolfram had rolled the sleeves and pants up until they fit despite the fact that Yuuri knew he hated putting creases into clothes.

“You’re staring, wimp,” Wolfram said, and Yuuri blushed furiously at having been caught, though he’d been doing it so blatantly there was no wonder at all that he would be.

“Sorry,” he stammered again, “I just… I can’t believe you’re here.” 

“You said that already,” Wolfram said, and his perfect pouty lips were pulled into the gentlest smile he’d ever seen Wolfram wear, “Wimp.”

Yuuri wanted nothing more than to kiss those perfect lips again, but with more purpose and intent. Now that he’d had a taste he was shocked he had the will to do anything else. Who knew when Wolfram would be taken away from him again? Fallen into a toilet or sucked into his teacup or—

The pot on the stove chose that moment to wail, loud and piercing, and Yuuri jerked back as Wolfram stepped forward, hand instinctively flying to a sword that was not strapped to his hip.

“Sorry, that’s just the water!” Yuuri jogged to the kitchen to remove the kettle from the heat, as Wolfram cautiously followed at a more sedate pace.

“I’d forgotten how loud Earth things are,” he heard Wolfram muse as he stepped into the kitchen. His eyes were roving over Yuuri’s meager belongings, gazing about with the same wonder he’d had every other time he’d been to Japan. 

“Yeah, sorry. I know this world is hard to get used to.”

“This isn’t your mother’s house,” Wolfram observed absently, eyes still lingering on appliances and empty countertops.

“I moved out.” 

Wolfram nodded once, and looked at Yuuri with a critical, searching eye that made Yuuri flush. He wondered what Wolfram saw. It had been seven years, and he thought he’d changed some. Gotten taller, broader, stronger. His youthful face had thinned out, his jawline sharpened. He didn’t consider himself quite as broad and manly as Shori, a point he would never admit to his brother but that certainly frustrated him, but he knew he was hardly the awkward seventeen-year-old he’d been when he left Shin Makoku.

Wolfram, by comparison, hardly looked any different. Now that his hair was drying Yuuri could see that it was indeed longer, falling down his neck haphazardly but with bangs that still purposefully curled around his face. It was hard to see how much Wolfram’s body had changed, since it was still hidden beneath Yuuri’s too-long pajamas, but his face still appeared youthful and soft, if a little thinner. 

It was his eyes that seemed the most different. They weren’t as wide, maybe? Or maybe it was just the slight crease below them that seemed out of place, not quite bags the way Gwendal carried them, but a new pinch of the delicate skin that made him seem tired, aged even if not by much.

Neither of them spoke as they took the other in properly for the first time, as if they were both too afraid to ask the same question.

How much time had passed?

“Do you want tea?” Yuuri finally offered, and busied himself grabbing a cup and a bag of the only kind he kept, the kind his mom drank when she came to visit.

Wolfram took a seat at his small dining table, but Yuuri pressed the mug into his hands and let their fingers linger slightly, desperate for contact and assurance that this was really happening. Wolfram looked so ridiculously out of place in Yuuri’s tiny Japanese kitchen, in Yuuri’s too large pajamas, holding a mug Murata had gifted him with Hello Kitty on the front.

Wolfram chuckled quietly as he warmed his fingers against the ceramic.

“Brother would love this,” he said, and Yuuri smiled. He’d had the exact same thought the moment he’d unwrapped it.

“How is he?” Yuuri asked, and Wolfram’s small smile fell slightly. He lifted the mug to his lips as if for an excuse not to speak, and Yuuri felt his heart speed up a little in anxiety.

“Is everyone okay?” he asked, at the same time that Wolfram said, “Yuuri.”

They both quieted.

“Yuuri,” Wolfram said again, and placed the mug on the table, “He’s fine. Everyone is fine.”

Why was this so awkward? Yuuri had been quite literally dreaming of this day for seven years, and now that it was here he had no idea what to do. Wolfram was clearly struggling on his own end, too, as if unsure of what to say and how to start.

Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed him. Maybe Wolfram’s hesitation stemmed from that. Or maybe, some terrible part of him whispered, maybe Wolfram really had already moved on.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, anxiety a pit in his stomach, “for kissing you like that. I should have asked first. Or talked to you more first. I didn’t really mean to do it, but not because I didn’t want to. I mean, I’ve wanted to for so long but I shouldn’t have just assumed that you—W-Wolf?”

Wolfram had risen from his seat and was standing in front of him suddenly, green eyes pinning him in place as readily as if he’d run Yuuri through with his sword.

“Don’t apologize,” Wolfram said firmly, as if a command, “and kiss me again.”

Yuuri didn’t need to be told twice. Yuuri didn’t think he could have denied a command like that even if he’d wanted to, even if he had still been king and Wolfram his knight.

So the once-king pulled his most loyal knight into his arms and kissed him for all he was worth.

==

Kissing Yuuri was better than Wolfram had ever let himself imagine, and he’d certainly imagined plenty. Somehow he’d wound up in this world, Yuuri’s world, or maybe some twisted alternate version of it, because a Yuuri that wanted him, that took Wolfram into his arms to kiss him until his lungs were burning, was not a world Wolfram had ever thought existed.

But there he was, in Yuuri’s arms, lifted and placed on the table he’d abandoned his tea to, with Yuuri’s lips—as perfect as he imagined, as soft, as warm—pressing against his and Yuuri’s tongue—warm and wet and wonderful—pushing tantalizing into his mouth.

Oh, how he’d wanted this. Oh, how he’d yearned for this. Wolfram fisted his hands in the front of Yuuri’s soft shirt—not black, not royalty, not anymore—and let his eyes flutter closed. He was lost in the sensation of Yuuri’s hands on his back and in his damp hair, of Yuuri’s body warm and solid against his thighs.

Wolfram tipped his head back and moaned; a desperate, needy little sound that might have horrified him if it didn’t make Yuuri surge forward with a noise almost like a growl, possessive and insistent, hungry. 

Did it matter what had brought him here? Did it matter where ‘here’ was; what world this was and what version of Yuuri he’d been blessed with? Wolfram didn’t have the capacity to even consider such things, not when Yuuri wound his arms—thicker, stronger—around his back and lifted him up. It was all Wolfram could do to wind his legs around Yuuri’s waist and his arms around his neck and let himself be carried in the most undignified and yet amazing way he had ever been before. Wolfram was dropped onto a bed and then Yuuri was crawling over him, black eyes somehow darker in the dim lighting.

It was wonderful. Terrifying. Amazing. Overwhelming. Perfect.

Wolfram trembled when hands pulled at the fabric of his borrowed night shirt, when Yuuri’s hot breath puffed against his ear.

“Is this okay?” Yuuri breathed. He was such a wimp, always so softhearted. Wolfram hated that about him. Wolfram loved that about him.

“Don’t ask for permission,” Wolfram managed, with as much bite as he could muster. He was tired of questions, of granting permission. “Take me. I’m yours; always, still, I’m yours.”

Yuuri’s hands pulled at the shirt Wolfram was wearing; the one whose sleeves had been too long, that had hung off of him in a way Yuuri’s Earth clothes never had before, and yanked. Wolfram could feel the buttons struggle, give, and then there was cool air on his chest and a hand; rough, calloused, warm, big, perfect—frozen.

“What?” Yuuri breathed.

“What?” Wolfram asked, annoyed at the interruption. 

“Do you have..?” Yuuri trailed off. His hand tentatively squeezed.

“What?” Wolfram snapped.

“Breasts?”

Wolfram fixed Yuuri with the flattest look he could, though he doubted Yuuri could see him well in the dim light.

“Astute observation, Yuuri. Those lessons with von Christ really did pay off; you learned about anatomy.” 

“I’m serious!” Yuuri sounded flustered. The hand left Wolfram’s chest as if burned. “I thought—I mean—aren’t you—?”

Wolfram pushed himself onto his elbows.

“Aren’t I what, you wimp?” Wolfram tried to keep the bite from his voice, so afraid of scaring Yuuri off. But, did it matter? He somehow already had. Of course he had. There was no world, not even an alternate version of a separate world, with a Yuuri that wanted him.

“You’re a boy!”

Oh Great One, this again? Wolfram felt as if he might come apart from the agony that lanced through his chest. He pushed himself up to sitting and clenched hands into sheets to keep from grabbing the ache, or from throttling Yuuri.

“Yes,” he seethed, “I am. And you very well knew that when you kissed me, you miserable excuse for a—”

Yuuri’s hand pressed to Wolfram’s mouth, effectively silencing him. He removed it soon after, no doubt intimidated by the withering glare Wolfram shot him. Even with his mouth uncovered, Wolfram merely pursed his lips together and remained silent.

“No, wait, I’m sorry,” his miserable and cruel wimp blubbered, “I didn’t mean—I mean, I know you’re a boy! I know, and I’m really okay with that Wolf—at least, I am now. I really mean that! I kissed you knowing that and being okay with that—more than okay with that.”

“Get to your point,” Wolfram seethed.

“Since when do you have breasts? We used to take baths together! You never had them before!”

Wolfram rubbed his temple. 

“I’ve always had breasts. When we met I was only eighty-two, they were hardly developed!” It was embarrassing to admit; he’d actually been a bit of a late bloomer, as his mother worded it, but now that Wolfram was older and his chest had finally softened he was not glad for it. Breasts were harder to fight with, and required further tailoring for garments to properly hang. At least, he thought, he was not nearly as well endowed as his mother. He hoped it stayed that way.

“But you’re a boy!”

Yuuri was so simple minded. Even now Wolfram could hardly understand his once-king and the non-issues his Earth-taught brain found issue with.

Wolfram gathered the shirt around himself and pulled away.

“Forget this, Yuuri,” he growled to hide his confusion, his hurt.

Warm fingers caught Wolfram’s, stilling them before he could slide the buttons back into place.

“Wait,” Yuuri said, voice soft, “I’m sorry, I’m just confused. I mean, I know that things like that happen on Earth too but I never thought that you… we used to bathe together and I never noticed, so I always just assumed that you…”

Yuuri ran a hand through his own hair and let out a rough sigh, “I didn’t really pay attention to Günter’s lesson,” he admitted, quieter, almost bashful. Wolfram didn’t know how Yuuri could make his heart flutter so soon after he had wounded it.

“I’m hardly surprised,” Wolfram sniffed, forcing his tone haughty, “that’s what we got for appointing an illiterate king.”

“Hey, I was learning to read and write!”

“And how far did you get, wimp? I doubt you’ve kept up with those lessons!”

It was almost as if the last fifteen years hadn’t passed, as if Yuuri was still king and they were safe in the castle in their shared bedroom, bickering over the inane problems of the day to pass the time. It nearly made Wolfram smile. But only nearly.

Yuuri sat beside him, rather than on top of him, and Wolfram let his fists relax.

“I should have paid attention to Günter’s lessons,” Yuuri admitted, soft. Now that Wolfram’s eyes had adjusted better to the light, he could see those dark eyes watching him. “I didn’t think things like that would be different.”

“You’re awfully hung up on gender and sex for the open-minded king you once portrayed yourself as,” Wolfram accused and Yuuri winced as if he’d been struck.

At least the heartless wimp had the decency to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Besides,” Wolfram continued, and tried to keep the wounded quality from his voice, “you never had anything to say about Gurrier.”

“Yozak? Didn’t he just cross-dress?”

“Cross-dress?” Some of Yuuri’s Earth words were so outlandish. “Gurrier has two genders. At least, I always assumed. We never spoke of it, but it’s not so uncommon in Shin Makoku. One, two, even none. Each person is unique.”

Yuuri let his body fall back against the mattress with an exaggerated noise. So undignified. In the darkness, Wolfram could imagine Yuuri the way he’d been before; young, wide-eyed, and infuriatingly cute even as he broke rules and acted out.

“I really didn’t know much about my own people, did I?” Yuuri mused aloud, voice soft and introspective, “I was so focused on uniting mazoku with humans that I glossed over learning about the people in my own kingdom.”

“A surprisingly insightful conclusion,” Wolfram said, and laid back down beside Yuuri. It seemed it wasn’t just appearances that had changed, Yuuri had matured in mind as well as body. The question that had nagged at him since the moment he found himself in this world returned: just how many years had passed here?

“Hey, I use my brain sometimes,” Yuuri protested, but weakly.

“Rarely.” Wolfram would give him that, at least.

Yuuri turned to face him in the darkness. Neither spoke for several moments.

“It’s funny,” Yuuri said, voice a murmur and not actually amused, “I spent so long pushing you away because of a bias over something that I’m now finding out might not even be true.”

“And what did you assume?” Wolfram couldn’t help but ask. Was it funny? Or was that unspeakably sad? Unbearably frustrating?

“I was afraid of your genitals,” Yuuri said, and laughed helplessly, “I never even stopped to ask what they were! But I guess back then it wouldn’t have mattered. I was so…”

“Wimpy. Short-sighted. Naive,” Wolfram finished for him.

Yuuri sighed, “I was, wasn’t I?”

“But the people respected you anyway. You were simple-minded and ignorant, but genuine. Everyone could see your conviction, and they were willing to follow you for it.”

“Wolf…”

Wolfram turned his head. Yuuri’s eyes were so impossibly black. 

“Do you still fear my genitals?” Wolfram asked, though the question felt and sounded ridiculous.

“No,” Yuuri said.

“You still haven’t asked what they are,” Wolfram reminded him.

“I don’t care,” Yuuri said, with the same clear conviction he said most things, “It’s been… it’s been long enough. I’ve had enough time to think about things. I always tried so hard to do what was right, and what I believed in, but I’ve still spent so much time regretting. I’m so tired of regretting, Wolf.”

“So do what you must to keep yourself from regretting this moment,” Wolfram said, challenging. Hopeful.

A hand came up to cup Wolfram’s cheek, and then Yuuri was straddling his waist and pulling at the buttons of Wolfram’s borrowed shirt with purpose. It was only once the shirt had been completely opened that Yuuri touched; gentle at first as a warm, callused hand cupped Wolfram’s small breast. 

The lights were dim, but Wolfram could see Yuuri drinking in the sight of him.

“You’re beautiful,” Yuuri whispered. A thumb brushed against the jut of Wolfram’s nipple, soft and wonderful. 

Wolfram’s gasp was swallowed by Yuuri’s mouth, by lips and tongue. A warm thigh pressed between Wolfram’s legs, and he trembled at the heat that rushed there. The hand on his breast was bolder now, cupping more firmly. No one had ever touched his chest like that, slightly kneading at his flesh as fingers brushed and flicked across the sensitive bud of his nipple. Wolfram hadn’t realized how much heat such touches could trigger.

“You’re so beautiful,” Yuuri said again, practically panting against his mouth. The leg between his almost trembled as it pushed forward more insistently, dropping slightly until Yuuri’s pelvis brushed against Wolfram’s hip. The firm heat of an erection, of Yuuri, brushed against him, and then Yuuri was moaning and Wolfram was being lit aflame.

“Yuuri,” Wolfram gasped, at the same time Yuuri groaned, “Wolf.”

“Is this… still okay?” Yuuri asked, but it sounded like he could barely get the words out.

Wolfram growled in his throat and reached, yanking Yuuri down by his hips until their bodies properly met. Yuuri rocked against him at once, head falling down into Wolfram’s shoulder and arms trembling where they bracketed Wolfram’s body.

“W-Wolf,” Yuuri moaned, lost in the rocking of his hips, “Wolf.”

Wolfram rolled his own crotch into the leg pressed against it, desperate for the way Yuuri said his name and for the growing hardness rocking against him. He wanted to see it, wanted to feel it properly. Wolfram had always wondered about Yuuri’s body and how it would develop. He’d always been curious about how the two of them might fit together.

“I want you,” Wolfram gasped, and Yuuri groaned aloud. 

“I want you,” Yuuri returned, but he hardly sounded in his right mind, already lost to pleasure.

“Let me see you,” Wolfram insisted, and Yuuri was pulled away and fumbling with his pants in the next moment, hands shaky. Wolfram watched with lidded, hungry eyes as Yuuri undid the clasp and yanked them and his ridiculous Earth undergarments down to his knees.

He was beautiful. Yuuri’s cock was flushed dark and standing tall, eager and proud where it twitched against his stomach. Wolfram couldn’t make the details out so well in the darkness, but what he could see was enough to fill him with a renewed rush of desire.

Yuuri shuffled out of his pants fully and tossed them haphazardly. He looked like he was trembling from the effort not to touch himself, or maybe not to touch Wolfram. So Wolfram sat up and touched instead, hand gentle where it cupped the length of Yuuri’s pulsing erection. Yuuri’s next noise was strangled as he jerked his hips into Wolfram’s hand and leaned over to support his head against Wolfram’s shoulder again.

“Wolf,” Yuuri practically whimpered, “I’ve wanted you for so long. I’m so sorry it took me so long. I’m so sorry, Wolf, I just—please, Wolf, I want—”

“Shh, Yuuri,” Wolfram soothed, and carded a hand through Yuuri’s hair as the other massaged against him, delicate fingers cupping and stroking firmly. “You can have all you want from me. I’m yours.”

Yuuri’s next breath sounded like a sob. His arms wrapped around Wolfram, tight and trembling, as his hips jerked desperately into his hand once, twice, three times. Wolfram worked the length of him, unpracticed but eager, and Yuuri came undone. He moaned, wanton and obscene, into Wolfram’s shoulder, and jerked his hips with an increasing desperation. 

Heat bloomed across Wolfram’s hand, and he murmured his assurances into Yuuri’s ear as those hips rocked without rhythm through the last dredges of orgasm.

And then Yuuri collapsed against him, gasping and twitching and still clinging, and Wolfram wound arms around him in kind, soiled hand settling against the shirt at Yuuri’s back.

“Wolf,” Yuuri murmured, soft and content, and Wolfram nuzzled into the boy draped around him and sighed. There was still heat, liquid fire, between his own legs, but his heart was full. He could be content like this, was more content than he’d probably ever been before.

It had been fifteen years, and Yuuri was still all he’d ever wanted.

“I missed you.”

It didn’t matter who had said it, because the sentiment was mirrored between them. Wolfram clutched Yuuri close and tried his hardest to erase the fifteen years that had passed, that had separated and changed them, if only for a moment.

==

Yuuri lost himself to the afterglow, feeling more content and safe than he had in the last seven years. They might have been different, changed by time and circumstance, but Wolfram’s presence had always made him feel safe. On Earth, and even with Wolfram of slighter build than him now, that sentiment was still true. He nuzzled into Wolfram’s heat and sighed as gentle fingers carded through his hair. This was what he had denied himself all those years ago? Never had Yuuri felt so foolish.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmured again, and Wolfram puffed a short breath of air, like a laugh, against his ear.

“So you keep saying,” Wolfram said. He sounded amused, and that was good.

“Tell me about Shin Makoku,” Yuuri requested into the damp skin of Wolfram’s neck, and felt the way Wolfram immediately tensed. It made his heart beat a little quicker again, full of worry for the people he’d left behind. But then Wolfram relaxed, and his hand resumed its gentle course through his hair.

“Peace has persisted,” Wolfram began. His voice was quiet but his words sounded genuine, “and our allies remain ours. For a time,” here Wolfram paused, faltering slightly before he righted himself, “for a time there was tension. You united us with many human territories and they were not all so enthused to continue our good relations without you there. It was hard work to convince them that we still desired peace, and could continue where you had left off. But it wasn’t impossible, and we have prospered for our efforts.”

Yuuri humed, eyes closed as a smile stretched his face. He’d worried, a little, that his ideals of peace and unity wouldn’t last, and was more than relieved to find that hadn’t been the case. 

“You would recognize the kingdom,” Wolfram continued, “My brother is still hard at work, when Anissina isn’t hounding him for help with something or other. Günter was devastated by your departure, of course, but always has plenty to occupy his time. Mother is still finding herself at sea, and breaking hearts wherever she goes. Gurrier spends most of his time outside of the castle, but he comes around at his leisure to trick Conrart into taking a day off every so often.”

Conrad… Yuuri missed him like he imagined he would have missed Shori, had he stayed. He missed everyone back at the castle, of course, and was happy to hear of them, but Conrad had been like a guardian in that strange land. It had been difficult not to have him around the last seven years, always ready and willing to offer advice.

“Conrart is well,” Wolfram continued, “He does what he can to keep busy. Günter has been teaching more of late, and Conrart helps. He’s still the best swordsman in the country, and the troops seem to appreciate his tutelage. So do the children who enjoy that ridiculous sport the two of you brought over. Conrart still spends a lot of his time passing that silly ball around.”

“Baseball isn’t ridiculous, Wolfram,” Yuuri complained, but couldn’t keep the smile from his face. At least Conrad was still playing, still teaching. Baseball was another thing he hadn’t been able to keep up with much. Maybe if he’d stayed, that wouldn’t have been the case, “I’m glad he’s still playing.”

Wolfram hummed.

“As am I. Why either of you enjoy that silly game, I’ll never understand, but it’s good for him. Conrart needs to keep busy. Peacetime is difficult for soldiers that have seen as much battle as he has.”

Wolfram really had grown so much. Yuuri couldn't see the noble brat he’d slapped at their first meeting anywhere in the person laying with him now. The Wolfram from before had hated his own brother, and had cursed those who were different. This Wolfram spoke of peace and allies and family.

“I’m glad you’re still getting along,” he said, and Wolfram made a noise and turned his head, embarrassed.

“I never said that,” Wolfram muttered, but Yuuri could tell there was no bite to his words. 

“What about Greta?” Yuuri asked after a beat of quiet, and felt his own heart clench. Greta was perhaps his biggest regret. Wolfram, at least, he’d said goodbye to, even if he’d done a terrible job of it. But Greta had been left behind by the man that called himself her father without so much as a word of explanation. 

He’d imagined the moment she found out in great detail over the years. Imagined her tears and her anger. Imagined her cursing his name and refusing to acknowledge him as her once-father ever again. Had it been Wolfram who had told her? Had he been crying, voice as broken as when he’d called Yuuri’s name that last time? Had he stayed by her despite his lack of official claim to her? Gods, but how many years had it been? Greta was only human, how was she fairing while growing up around the slowly aging mazoku? Was she already grown up? Gone?

Yuuri spiraled for several tense moments, moments made worse the longer Wolfram refused to speak. 

“Wolf,” he finally blurted, too anxious to wait any longer, “Is Greta..?”

“Greta is wonderful,” Wolfram said. Yuuri strained to make out the emotion in his voice, and pulled away a bit to try to read it from his face, but the darkness shielded it from Yuuri’s view. “You know there aren’t many children at court for her to play with, but she’s found her place in the castle. Tinkering with Anissina, knitting with Brother, playing with Conrart. I’ve taught her horseback riding and she’s taken to it like a proper princess. She’s much better than her wimpy father ever was.”

Yuuri sighed a breath of relief and let himself smile. Of course she would be okay. Of course Wolfram would have stayed by her, Wolfram was the most loyal person he’d ever met. Greta would want for nothing, least of all care and affection. He’d known that when he left, but to have his worries laid to rest after so long was freeing. 

“She has a wonderful father still with her,” Yuuri said, thankful and relieved, “I’m sorry I left you to raise her alone.”

“I’m the one that told you to leave,” Wolfram reminded him, after a moment of quiet, “I have no regrets, least of all about Greta. For all the good you did as king, she is what I’m proudest of you for. And,” Wolfram continued, voice so soft and warm, truly the voice of a father, “what I am most thankful to you for.”

Wolfram would have made a wonderful husband. Yuuri could see that so clearly now, could imagine what their family would have been like. They had already had a daughter, already had picnics and outings and games in the courtyard, but what would it have been like to fully embrace them? To sneak kisses while Greta picked flowers, to help Wolfram weave them into crowns, to let them both lounge back against his chest while Wolfram read their daughter to sleep? 

He missed them so much his heart ached.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. A knee nudged his side with enough force to rattle him.

“Quit your sniveling,” Wolfram snapped, “it’s unbecoming. Those are things we cannot change, and I’m exhausted of them. We can weep over the past, or take advantage of this stolen time together. Who knows how much of it we’ve been granted.”

“Tell me, Yuuri,” Wolfram said, as his voice twisted into something haughty and challenging, “will you run from me like the wimp you are, or finally take what you were so afraid of?” 

Wolfram rolled his hips up for emphasis, and Yuuri swallowed.

He really was a wimp, wasn’t he? Feeling sorry for himself and the time he’d lost rather than taking advantage of the gift he’d been given. Yuuri was tired of being wimpy and afraid and letting time pass by. So he lifted himself up and pushed Wolfram back against the pillows on his bed and kissed him. Wolfram was eager, kissing back with a fervor that reminded Yuuri he had been the only one to finish before and that also renewed his own interest. Already he could feel his cock twitching.

“I want you,” Yuuri murmured against Wolfram’s kiss-swollen lips, “I want to see you too.”

Wolfram shivered beneath him and reached hands around his neck.

“So undress me,” he demanded, “take what’s yours.”

Yuuri’s hands trembled with eagerness and maybe a little fear as he tugged on Wolfram’s borrowed pants, sliding them off Wolfram’s hips and over the swell of his ass and then off completely, to join his own discarded pair somewhere in the dark corners of his room. Wolfram wore no underwear, and when Yuuri looked down between his spread legs he nearly laughed. Only nearly, of course, because even without fire Wolfram could flay him alive, and also because the situation wasn’t actually funny at all. 

Wolfram had a vagina; a perfectly normal looking one at that. All that time he’d wasted, afraid of a penis Wolfram had never even possessed, bigoted over things that never should have even mattered.

Now, he didn’t care at all what Wolfram was packing, so long as he got to feel him. So Yuuri felt; took his hand and cupped it around the mound of him. Wolfram was damp, wet, and Yuuri could feel it against his palm as Wolfram gasped and bucked his hips into Yuuri’s grasp.

Yuuri was nearly lightheaded from the swift way his blood rushed south.

“Yuuri,” Wolfram sighed, head tipped back and mouth open.

He was absolutely breathtaking.

“You’re beautiful,” Yuuri whispered, and slid fingers on either side of Wolfram’s tiny, glistening cock. Wolfram gasped and jerked, rolling his hips and practically trembling.

“Touch me,” Wolfram demanded, and Yuuri complied, wandering fingers brushing against the sensitive tip of Wolfram’s swollen clit. The noise Wolfram made had Yuuri standing at full attention, mouth dry and cock already weeping slightly.

He’d touched other people before, while shyly experimenting with past partners. None of them could ever compare to the feeling that touching Wolfram gave him. He wanted to put his mouth on him, take the tiny bud of Wolfram’s cock into his mouth and shove his tongue inside him, wanted to feel and taste every inch of him, wanted that wet heat around him.

“I want you,” Yuuri blurted, fingers trembling where they rubbed and teased. Oh, how he wanted.

“So take me,” Wolfram said, and it sounded like a plea.

It would be so easy to sink into that wet heat. Yuuri tested it with his finger, pressed the digit lower until he found Wolfram’s dripping entrance and slipped inside. Wolfram was so wet it slid in easily, but Wolf still cried out and jerked up into him as if it was the best feeling in the world.

“Oh,” Wolfram gasped, practically dazed against the pillows he was sprawled upon, as if he’d never felt anything like it before, “Do that again.”

So Yuuri pulled his finger out and slid it back into place in one smooth motion. On the next pass, he twisted his wrist, and Wolfram’s hips jerked. Again and again he fucked his finger into Wolfram, and marveled at the quick way Wolfram’s walls relaxed. He was so wet it was a wonder that the bedding beneath him hadn’t already been soaked.

“More,” Wolfram demanded, begged. Yuuri dutifully added a second finger and Wolfram whimpered, legs falling open a little wider. His cock was so hard it ached, insistent and distracting but not enough to tear Yuuri’s attention away from the fingers he twisted and thrust inside Wolfram’s dripping heat.

“You’re so beautiful,” Yuuri babbled. Wolfram’s hips lifted and pushed against the fingers fucking into him.

“I want you,” Wolfram gasped, thighs trembling and eyes unfocused, “I want you, Yuuri, please.”

Yuuri felt like his brain had been switched off, replaced entirely with the cock straining between his legs. He swallowed.

“I-I don’t have a condom,” he admitted, voice quiet and entirely too disappointed. He’d fooled around with partners before, sure, but he’d never penetrated and, fuck, just the thought of doing that to Wolfram had his cock twitching helplessly.

“A what?” Wolfram fixed him with a look that screamed otherworld confusion.

“A condom. It, uh,” Yuuri had to halt the hand still inside Wolfram’s distracting wet heat to give his brain time to focus, “you put it on so you don’t give your partner a disease.”

“Do you have a disease?”

“What?” Yuuri sputtered, “No!”

“Well, neither do I,” Wolfram sounded scandalized at the very thought.

“You can get them from sex though, does Shin Makoku even know how to screen for that stuff?”

“I’ve never had sex before, Yuuri,” Wolfram snapped, but it sounded more embarrassed than annoyed, “So I’m fairly confident I don’t have any sort of sex-induced disease.”

Yuuri hated how relieved he felt at the admission. Wolfram was the most gorgeous person he’d ever seen, and the fact that he wanted his first time to be with Yuuri; ordinary, normal, mediocre Yuuri, made his heart beat a little faster.

“Have you?” Wolfram asked. The insecurity was carefully covered up; anxiety masked by cool indifference. Yuuri wanted to kiss him senseless.

“Not like this,” he admitted, and hated that it sounded like a half answer, hated that he’d ever let himself touch anyone else at all when Wolfram was waiting in his future.

“Then take me, Yuuri,” Wolfram said, and Yuuri felt his resolve starting to crumble.

“A condom also, um, prevents p-pregnancy,” he forced himself to say, because with their anatomy being what it was that was an actual concern, wasn’t it? He’d thought that possibility would be forever closed if he let himself want Wolfram, and to have it opened felt like whiplash.

“Mazoku fertility is incredibly low,” Wolfram said, “even more-so for those of mixed blood. Most try in vain for decades, Yuuri, now will you stop coming up with excuses and bed me properly already?” With that he rolled his hips, forcing Yuuri’s fingers just a little deeper and who was he to argue with that?

So Yuuri slid his fingers from Wolfram’s dripping cunt and wrapped the wet digits around his own cock. The wet heat made him shudder, and he eagerly lifted Wolfram’s hips to pull him closer, practically trembling as he lined the head of his weeping cock with the enticing entrance of Wolfram’s dripping cunt.

“A-are you sure?” he forced himself to ask, cock so very close to claiming that tight, wet heat as his own.

Wolfram growled and pushed closer insistently, and Yuuri watched with lidded eyes as his cock brushed Wolfram’s cunt for the first time.

Unable to hold himself back anymore, Yuuri pushed himself inside. Wolfram was so wet he nearly bottomed out in one thrust, but tight enough that he was forced to stop and pant from the force of it.

The noise Wolfram made underneath him was practically a shout, full of pleasure and so, so wonderful. Above him, Yuuri groaned, and wound arms around Wolfram’s waist to pull him closer.

“Oh, Wolf,” he practically whimpered, trembling from the effort it took to stay still.

“Move,” Wolfram pleaded, fingers scrabbling at the sheets beneath him and hips rolling, “Yuuri, please.”

So Yuuri moved; pulled out only to push back in, so deep on the second pass that his balls slapped against skin. They cried out as one, and Yuuri could feel Wolfram’s legs wind around him, holding him in place as his head tipped back into the pillows. He was trembling all over, needy and desperate, and Yuuri was all too happy to give him everything he wanted.

Their lovemaking was fast and desperate, guided by inexperience and enthusiasm. Wolfram cried Yuuri’s name over and over as Yuuri thrust inside him, and Yuuri breathed shakily against Wolfram’s lips, whimpering embarrassingly and thrusting without rhythm. He’d never felt so good in his entire life. No amount of fooling around could have prepared him for the real thing, for Wolfram. 

It was perfect, and when Yuuri experimentally pressed his thumb against the swollen bud of Wolfram’s cock, he could feel the inner walls tighten almost painfully around him as Wolfram cried out, fingers clutching Yuuri’s thighs tightly and head thrown back as he tumbled into release.

Yuuri snapped his hips forward one more time and followed him into orgasm, bodies joined as tightly as possible as he spilled his seed as deeply as he could and trembled from the force of it.

It was the best orgasm he’d ever had, and when it was done Yuuri practically collapsed against Wolfram’s equally spent body. Though his cock was softening, they were still joined, and Yuuri had no desire to pull away. He was too blissed out to move, warm and content and safe. Truly happy for the first time in so long.

Arms reached up to wind around him, and Yuuri pressed his face into the curve of Wolfram’s neck. Together they laid for several moments into minutes, just breathing and enjoying the aftershocks of pleasure. Yuuri peppered lazy kisses against Wolfram’s neck and collar, and Wolfram absently stoked his hair and skin. It was bliss.

“Yuuri,” Wolfram said, voice so close to his ear. There was so much emotion in that cracking voice, the same emotion he’d been too afraid to face all those years ago, but this time Yuuri forced himself to meet it head on. 

Silent tears slipped down Wolfram’s cheeks, to catch in the soiled sheets beneath them, and Yuuri wound arms around Wolfram’s body to clutch him close. The arms around him tightened, and a face damp with tears lifted to hide away against his chest.

There was years of pain in Wolfram’s tears, in the hitching breaths against his chest, and Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut as his own tears slipped through.

“I love you,” he choked, and Wolfram trembled, the first noise of anguish hidden against his shirt, “I’m sorry, I never—I shouldn’t be saying this now. I don’t know—maybe it’s been too long to really know, maybe we’re too different now. But I love you, Wolf. I’m so sorry, I love you.”

“I love you, Yuuri,” Wolfram sobbed into his chest, and through the pleasure and the pain Yuuri knew peace.

They laid together for a long time, clutching each other desperately as if a portal might appear at any moment to whisk one of them away. When the tears had slowed and then stopped, Yuuri felt himself doze, spent physically and emotionally. Wolfram never left his arms, and didn’t complain about the mess left behind until they were both barely clinging to consciousness. It was only then that Yuuri forced himself from the bed for a damp towel. A bath might have been a good idea, but he wasn’t allowing Wolfram anywhere near water. Wolfram seemed to have the same reservations, because he accepted the towel without complaint.

When at last the mess had been washed away, they staved off sleep in favor of curling up together under the blankets to speak in quiet voices.

Yuuri talked about Earth; about his mother and father, about Shori and Murata. He talked about his job and his friends, about Shori’s reign as Maou and about baseball. He admitted that he still wore his pendant, and that he thought about Shin Makoku every day; missed all of them every day.

Wolfram talked about Shin Makoku; a little more about Cheri and Gwendal and Conrad and Greta. He was careful not to mention the years that had passed, and hardly spared time for things like policy and treaty, but he mentioned Flurin and Hyscliff and Beatrice, talked about how much everyone missed him. He talked about the baseball team Conrad had put together, and about the festival that had been created in Yuuri’s honor. It wasn’t until later that Yuuri realized he’d hardly talked about himself.

They made love again that night, less desperate and rushed and frenzied but with no less emotions involved, and when they finally could no longer keep their eyes open they curled up as close together as they could manage.

It was perfect; better than any dream Yuuri had ever had. Part of him feared it would have all been one in the morning; more vivid, more wonderful, but a dream all the same.

And then, just as he’d feared: the next morning, Wolfram was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since they're operating at different aging speeds and years passing, ages sit here:
> 
> Yuuri is 24, and has continued to age like a human because he's been on Earth  
> Wolfram is 100 (which is equivalent to about 20 in "human years")  
> Greta is 25


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> \- Trans pregnancy things, most notably nausea and vomiting

Wolfram woke slowly, pulled from sleep by comfortable warmth and the faint sound of songbirds, by the barest hint of sun that always struggled to reach his bed from the large curtained windows. Something about his bed being familiar—about being home at all felt wrong, and for a moment he struggled to remember how he’d gotten into bed that night. The last thing he knew, he’d been in the bath, and then…

Memories of Earth, of Yuuri, yanked Wolfram’s eyes open and drew his hand, and then his eyes, across the bed; his bed, not Yuuri’s. Empty.

“Wolfram.”

Wolfram jerked his head over, fingers twitching to summon fire, but it was only Conrart. He was sitting in a chair beside Wolfram’s bed, and placing a mark in a book that he then carefully set aside. The mild smile was back on his face, but it was frayed at the edges.

“What happened?” Wolfram asked. How had he gotten there? He’d been on Earth, with Yuuri, so how? Why?

“I was hoping you would tell me,” Conrart said. The smile slipped from his face, “I found you in the bath, unresponsive, four days ago. You’ve slept since.”

“What?” Wolfram whispered. The more he wracked his brain, the less Conrart’s words made sense. How had he gotten back to his bath in Shin Makoku, when the last thing he remembered was falling asleep in Yuuri’s bed? How had he slept through the journey? Why had he slept for so long afterwards, when the trip to Earth hadn’t drained his energy the same way?

Or had Yuuri just been a dream? The result of a bruised head and bathwater in his lungs?

Though his head didn’t feel bruised, he was a bit lightheaded, and his heart ached faintly. Without meaning to, he pressed a hand to his chest.

Four days…

A thought seized him at once, and forced him up onto his elbows.

“The delegates!” 

Warm, firm hands settled on his shoulders to push him back down against the pillows, and Wolfram finally realized how weak he actually felt. His vision swam faintly, and the ache in his chest squeezed a little tighter.

“Wolfram, be still. Gwendal has seen to Shou Shimaron. You have nothing to worry about right now, save your health.”

With one crisis averted, though he doubted without consequence, Wolfram could focus on the other pain in his chest; the one that screamed for Yuuri, that had his heart thumping painfully as tears—embarrassing, bitter, undignified—welled in his eyes.

“I thought,” he stuttered, babbling like a frightened child, “I dreamt...”

Conrart’s weight settled against the edge of the bed, and when a gentle hand reached to wipe his cheek, Wolfram twisted his fingers in the fabric of his brother’s sleeve and choked on an aborted noise of grief he was shamed to share.

A dream…Yuuri had only been a dream!

Conrart moved more fully onto the bed, and Wolfram embarrassed himself by leaning into his brother’s side. A warm arm curled around him in a gesture of comfort—not the first time they had shared physical affection in their more recent years, but still a novelty. Wolfram was hardly a physically affectionate person, let alone with his unreachable brothers, but in the fifteen years he’d felt burdened and alone beneath the crown of Shin Makoku, Conrart had persisted by his side. Their relationship was hardly what it might have been, had he not denied their relation for so much of his youth, but at least now he could find comfort in his brother’s presence as he once did.

“Wolfram,” Conrart said, as calm and unshakable as the arm that grounded him, “you were wearing fabric from the other world. It was not a dream.”

Not a dream…Yuuri had been real? Yuuri’s world, and the strange cat mug, and the narrow bed, and the words of love he’d whispered against Wolfram’s naked flesh: not a dream.

The next breath he took was shaky, and he hid his mortifying tears in his own sleeve rather than Conrart’s jacket, but let himself lean against his brother’s steady warmth anyway. He’d never felt so relieved and yet so heartbroken in the same moment. It left him feeling woozy and disconnected, barely aware of Conrart’s hand rubbing soothingly against his back and his voice, calm and steady, as he directed Wolfram’s breathing.

“Deeply, Wolfram,” Conrart coached, “and steady. Hold your breath for two counts, and release slowly.”

Wolfram released his breath in a rush. He was slightly annoyed at the hand that rubbed against his back, but too weak to properly discourage the babying.

“Are you sure, Conrart?” Wolfram lifted watery eyes to Conrart’s worried face, “About the fabric? You’re sure that it came from Earth?”

“I’m sure.”

Wolfram smiled; relieved, devastated, happy, heartbroken.

“I saw him, Conrart,” Wolfram said, as bittersweet tears spilled down his cheek. He rubbed them away quickly, “Yuuri. He’s grown up so much.”

“So have you,” Conrart said, but Wolfram wasn’t sure who he meant to fool. “Did he bring you to Earth?”

“No,” Wolfram said, and then, “I don’t know. Yuuri was just as surprised to see me there. I went through the bath, like he often did, but I don’t know how I returned. I went to bed that night in his strange Earth house and woke up just now.”

He could tell Conrart wanted to ask questions, because of course he did; his affection for Yuuri had never faltered, but his brother hid his curiosities behind his usual calm. 

“Gisela couldn't find anything physically wrong. Perhaps your maryoku is exhausted from the journey, and that is why you’ve slept so long. Are there any other consequences? How is your heart?”

“I’m fine, Conrart,” Wolfram tried to snap, but the effect was ruined by the way he rested his head against his brother’s chest, and by the fresh wave of tears he wiped from his cheeks. So he added, “just tired,” and hoped the partial honesty was enough to calm his brother’s worries.

“So what did Yuuri say?” Conrart finally let himself ask, and Wolfram likewise allowed them to remain as they were as he recounted what little about the trip was appropriate for outside ears. Conrart’s smile as he listened was more genuine than it had been in years, but Wolfram didn’t feel any jealousy for it. It felt nice to finally repay even a small portion of Conrart’s steadfast devotion, at least now that he knew where Yuuri’s affections lay. 

Wolfram wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, only that he must have dozed as Conrart gently eased him back against his bed and smoothed the soft sheets into place. He would be embarrassed about it in the morning, but in the moment he allowed himself to be treated as a child.

This time, his dreams were memories.

  
==  


The delegates from Shou Shimaron were hardly impressed to be made waiting for his appearance during their four days of meetings in his absence, and made their displeasure known as finally Wolfram joined their peace talks. It was a poor first impression, but Gwendal had covered the blunder with his usual courtly grace and firm authority. It was his way of showing concern, and Wolfram was both embarrassed of the need and thankful for it.

Posturing was all the display of displeasure was; an excuse for Shou Shimaron’s representatives to be difficult and unaccommodating. But everyone at his table had anticipated their unwillingness, and it came as no surprise when, after nearly two weeks of accommodation at court and grueling talks of treaty and protection, they parted on no more pleasant terms than they had met.

Shou Shimaron was in a precarious position, linked unequivocally to Dai Shimaron, whose open opposition to Shin Makoku had hardly faltered at all before or during Wolfram’s reign. The fact that King Saralegui had come speaking of peace with the very country his stronger sister nation opposed screamed of deceit and misconduct, but it could hardly be called out lest Dai Shimaron come to Shou Shimaron’s call.

Part of Wolfram worried that the two nations were working together, needling at Shin Makoku’s defenses in search of an opening to exploit. There hadn’t been war in thirty-seven years, and the long length of peace was not something Wolfram wanted to be responsible for ending, even provoked. 

If Yuuri was still Maou he would have pushed his way right into Shou Shimaron and made the young and fair King Saralegui fall for his charms, and then somehow invited Dai Shimaron’s King Langille over for tea and a game of tag around the courtyard. If Yuuri was still Maou, perhaps their peace would be genuine and happy, rather than strained. War was not quite at their borders, but Wolfram feared the rope would snap at any moment.

The stress was eating at him. It pinched at his heart, the one Yuuri had fought so hard to have returned to him but that had always felt a little weak after so long without its beat, and brought pressure to his temple. The faint bags that persisted underneath Wolfram’s eyes deepened the slightest bit, enough that Conrart’s own face appeared strained every time their eyes met, and turned his sleep restless.

Finally, after months of stilted communication between the two nations, the stress brought Wolfram to his knees in the garden, where he retched his breakfast into the freshly tended foliage. 

Conrart insisted he see Gisela, but Wolfram quieted his worried badgering with a promise to rest and to see her if his symptoms persisted.

A week later, they had: random bouts of nausea he hid from his retainers as best he could, a distinct lack of appetite and recurring sessions of grueling upheaval of whatever meager meal he’d eaten into whatever bucket or unfortunate plant he first stumbled across.

Finally, when Conrart could be dissuaded no longer, Wolfram found himself lifted and carried over Yozak's shoulder like an ungraceful sack of potatoes to the examination room that Gisela had already prepared.

“Sorry, Your Kingliness,” Yozak drawled, actually sounding rather pleased with himself, “Captain’s orders.”

“I am your king!” Wolfram sputtered, red faced and rumpled, but Yozak didn’t look the least bit chastised as he shrugged and ruffled Wolfram’s already mused hair.

“So chase me around the castle when you’re feeling better, kid,” Yozak said, the closest to an admission of worry Wolfram would probably ever receive from him, before excusing himself from the room and leaving Wolfram to the lion.

As he’d expected, Gisela demanded he sit and lectured him for a good fifteen harrowing minutes about the importance of his health and about dealing with stress and taking breaks before finally turning her magic to him.

She soothed his headache, calmed his heart, and settled warm, tingling hands against his flipping stomach with a gentleness that had always seemed at odds with her stubborn personality but that Wolfram nonetheless appreciated.

He was just starting to doze, propped in a comfortable bed against soft pillows as the warmth of her magic lulled him, when Gisela abruptly stood from her chair and yanked his fitted shirt from his pants and up his stomach with little warning at all.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Wolfram demanded, shaken, as Gisela’s hands pressed against his skin.

“Hush,” Gisela snapped, eyes closed in concentration as her magic reached, and Wolfram felt his heart and stomach flip uncomfortably. Finally, her eyes snapped open, and settled on him. The emotion in their depths filtered rapidly, each something he couldn’t quite name, before she finally hardened her expression into a mask of professionalism.

Wordlessly, she pulled the chair at his bedside closer and settled back into it.

“When was your last blood?” she asked, and Wolfram swallowed his demands for explanation at the serious look on her face.

“I don’t recall,” he admitted, quietly, “I’m often late—stress. My cycle has been strange for a decade.” 

Gisela nodded. Her face gave nothing away.

“And your last sexual relation?”

Wolfram wet dry lips and looked away. 

“Three months.”

Three months since that night with Yuuri, and he’d yet to trigger another portal no matter what he’d tried. Just thinking about it made his heart ache with longing.

“I see,” Gisela said, and sighed. Wolfram chanced a look at her again, but her expression was guarded. 

“I’m not sure what emotion to tell you this with, so I’ll just come out and say it,” she said, eyes steady where they locked with Wolfram’s. 

“You’re pregnant.”

There was a ringing in Wolfram's ear that made listening to the rest of her words difficult.

Gisela asked him a lot of questions that he could barely make out; about his diet and his appetite, about his headaches and nausea, the color of his bile, his insomnia and the strength of his maryoku. She didn’t ask about the other parent, but Wolfram’s unmarried status and lack of declared suitors was like a sandbear in the room, looming and ferocious. He must have answered her questions half decently because she continued on with them, but the harder he tried to listen the louder his own heartbeat became.

Wolfram could hardly speak; his tongue felt too big and dry for his mouth and his brain scrambled. Mazoku fertility was notoriously low, a product of their long lives. That his own mother had only bore three children was testament to how difficult it was to conceive. A full and half mazoku producing a child on the very first try was all but unheard of. He had assured Yuuri of that himself—had scoffed at Yuuri's precautions because he thought he knew better, because he was desperate to have any part of Yuuri that he could, because they had deserved one night.

“It was only one night,” he whispered, hardly realizing that Gisela had still been speaking. “My very first night. How?” His body trembled, hands fisted into sheets. “How did this happen?”

And then he was panicking, breath too fast and body trembling. Gisela forced his head down, tried speaking soothingly over the loudness of his labored breathing, but the next thing he knew she was gone and Conrart was in her place, gentle hands tipping his head back to search his face.

“Wolfram, what’s happened?” Conrart was usually so good at hiding his emotions, as steady as stone, but Wolfram could see the panic bright in his brother’s eyes.

“Little Big Brother,” Wolfram cried, suddenly 20 again; frightened from nightmares and stealing into Conrart’s room to hide under the protection of his bedsheets.

Conrart looked stricken for a moment, undoubtedly thrown by the title Wolfram had forsaken so very long ago, and then there were strong arms wrapped around him, holding him protectively against a broad chest. Wolfram clung to his brother and cried as if he really was 20 again, just a child himself instead of the Maou.

“It’s alright, Wolfram,” Conrart soothed, and rocked him as he would do when a young Wolfram would crawl into his lap and weep of bogeymen, “I’ve got you. I’ll protect you.”

“A baby,” Wolfram whispered, and Conrart froze immediately, “I can’t, Conrart! I’m alone, he’s not here. A baby! How can I do this without him? I’m not enough. I’m not enough!”

The arms holding him turned crushing, pulling Wolfram even closer as if Conrart could somehow shield him from the inevitable. 

Wolfram could hear Conrart’s breath, slightly shaky but trying to steady, as he resumed his soothing rocking. Conrart would be a better father, Wolfram decided. Conrart was the closest thing Wolfram had ever had to one, anyway.

“You are enough, Wolfram,” Conrart said, with conviction, “You are enough for Greta. You are enough for Shin Makoku. You are enough for me. You will be enough for this child.”

“I can’t do this alone,” Wolfram practically whimpered, quiet and broken and terrified. Weak. Pathetic. A sorry replacement for a great king and father.

“You are not alone,” Conrart assured him, voice as soft as his arms were firm, “I promise you, you will never be alone.”

It took some time for Wolfram’s tears to slow and panic to ease. In all that time they were not disturbed, and it wasn’t until he’d exhausted himself that he realized he had, at some point, curled up with his head on Conrart’s lap like a child. Fingers carded through his hair, gentle and lulling, but Wolfram was too drained to be properly mortified.

Already twice he’d allowed himself to break down in Conrart’s arms, with barely months between the incidents. But was it so bad to let himself be coddled? To seek comfort from the brother who had been drying his tears from the moment he'd first opened his eyes? Perhaps not. Or perhaps he really was weak, buckling under a weight too large for his thin shoulders. Perhaps, even now that he had reached his first century, he was still a child in need of his hand held and boogeymen scared away.

A baby... 

Of course he’d raised Greta, even as a single parent for the last fifteen years. But she’d come to him at human eight, the building blocks already laid, and had grown so very fast. Had he even had time to ruin her when her maturity matched his in just eight quick years? Had Gwendal been the real father all along, of appropriate age and maturity, and Wolfram just a big brother parading about in the parent’s role?

This baby would be nearly full mazoku. It would age so much slower, would look to Wolfram for protection and guidance in all matters. This baby might grow up as Wolfram himself had: so very lonely and confused about why their parent never had time for them. This baby wouldn’t even have siblings at the castle to help curb the biting loneliness, until intolerance and fear drove even that comfort away.

This baby was a mistake. This baby was half Yuuri. This baby was exactly what Wolfram had always wanted.

His stomach was flat and would be for some time, but Wolfram pressed a shaking hand against it, curled protectively around it. Conrart’s fingers continued their gentle stroking through his hair.

“You’re a great father,” his brother murmured, “this child will know it too.”

“Will you,” Wolfram said, voice wavering and weak, “will you teach it to play that silly Earth game, when it’s old enough? I believe Yuuri would like that.”

Conrart chuckled, as gentle and soothing as the fingers that ran through his hair, “I believe so too. And I would want nothing more.”

“That’s good,” Wolfram whispered, voice muffled by the fabric of his sleeve as he hid his face, “That’s good.”

  
==  


“He’s too young!” Gwendal roared. He was pacing the floor in front of his desk so vigorously Conrart worried for the soles of his shoes, and for the vein throbbing at his temple, “Barely even a full century; little more than a child!”

Gwendal had been agitated since the moment Conrart informed him of Wolfram’s condition, and his rage only seemed to blaze hotter the longer he stoked it.

“But he is not a child,” Conrart reminded him, and when Gwendal’s head shot threateningly in his direction he wisely closed his mouth.

“‘Not a child’ is not good enough!” His brother’s voice was so loud Conrart imagined their private conversation was only made so by the diligence of Yozak in the hall, “Already he is responsible for too much! Maou before his first century—do you not see him already buckling under even that pressure? Do you not agree that he is woefully unprepared for this? Do you not see the insanity in this, Conrart?!”

“The decision to keep the child is his alone, Brother,” Conrart reasoned, as calmly as he could in the face of Gwendal’s rage.

“But it should not be!” Gwendal howled, and slammed his fists to the solid wood of his desk. He stood, hunched over and struggling to regain himself, for several moments. Conrart could see that his shoulders were shaking, his undoubtedly bruising fists trembling with suppressed emotion.

Anger was the easiest emotion for both his brothers to bear, but Conrart could plainly see the grief Gwendal struggled with. 

Wolfram’s ascent to the throne had not been easy for any of them. Watching him bow under the weight of duty before he’d even fully matured had been a special form of torture. It had been hard for Conrart to watch Yuuri struggle with it before him, but Yuuri had not felt the crown’s weight for nearly as long as Wolfram. Every year Conrart watched the way its burden settled a little heavier, placed lines of fatigue to Wolfram’s young face and recurring aches to his weakened heart. 

It was perhaps even harder for Gwendal to watch. Conrart knew Wolfram held the softest spot in Gwendal’s guarded heart, knew Gwendal hated himself for the role he’d held in Wolfram’s ascension, and for being unable to protect him from duty.

This child was just another thing neither of them could shield him from.

“Who has done this to him, Conrart?” Gwendal asked, seemingly calm but with barely suppressed rage boiling, and fixed Conrart with a chilling look over his trembling shoulder, “If you know and keep their name from me, Brother, once I’ve wrung one neck I will come next for yours!”

The threat may have been empty, but Conrart was not so confident of that.

“Yuuri,” he said, and Gwendal scoffed an ugly laugh.

“Absolute nonsense! Do you take me for a fool?” Gwendal stood, and the rage he’d been nurturing blazed hotter, “You would defend the wretch that touched our brother?!”

Conrart met Gwendal’s gaze steadily. “I would defend him,” he answered confidently, “but I do not shield him. It was Yuuri, the day Wolfram was called to Earth.”

Gwendal pressed a hand against his eyes, and Conrart felt a familiar pang of worry. The left bothered Gwendal too often—as often as Wolfram’s heart and his own left arm.

“I know you do not believe that he went to the other world,” Conrart added, “but I am confident that he did. Wolfram is adamant that it was Yuuri, and insists he has had no other relations. The fact that the child exists at all is a miracle.”

“Or a curse,” Gwendal whispered. With anger suddenly gone, Gwendal seemed strangely fragile. To see his usually composed brother so uncharacteristically haggard was unnerving. It made Conrart's heart ache with worry.

“Wolfram is strong,” Conrart reminded him, “and deserves our support.”

“He is so young,” Gwendal said, but this time with the grief he’d been parading as anger apparent in his voice.

“He is,” Conrart agreed, his own voice somber.

“We’ve failed him in every way that mattered. I’ve failed him.” Gwendal sagged heavily against the sturdy wood of his desk and ran fingers through his hair. Conrart could see the beginnings of bruise and blood already welling against the tan skin of his hands.

“Wolfram wouldn’t agree.”

“He’s too young to see it.” Gwendal said, “But he will.”

“Have more faith,” Conrart said, and at last stepped forward to place a steadying hand on Gwendal’s bowed shoulder, “and forgiveness. Let yourself be his brother in this matter. You both deserve it.”

A damaged hand settled atop Conrart’s as Gwendal sucked in a steadying breath. On the release, the hand dropped, and when Gwendal straightened Conrart allowed his own arm to fall to his side. The moment was over; his brother replaced by Shin Makoku’s head of state.

“No one else can know. We keep it from even the Ten Aristocrats, even from Mother. Shin Makoku is already in a difficult position, and I will not allow our enemies the chance to discover this weakness,” Gwendal fixed Conrart with a serious, guarded look, “Do not allow him out of your sight. If anything happens to him, Conrart...” 

Gwendal did not need go on; Conrart nodded as the dutiful soldier, and then smiled faintly as the loyal brother.

“He will tire of my presence within the week, I assure you. Leave him to me.”

Gwendal sighed, and moved around his desk to collapse upon his chair, weary under the oppressive weight of his own burdens.

“Very well.”

  
==  


Murata didn’t even have the decency to look shamed as he placed his mug back down upon the peeling wood of the table they occupied. Instead, he just sighed and bought himself a moment of thought as he pushed his glasses back against the bridge of his nose.

They’d barely had drinks in hand and seats beneath them when Yuuri accosted him with hissed accusations and anger, declaring Murata a liar with Wolfram the proof.

“What do you want me to say, Shibuya?” Murata finally asked, sounding harried—as if he had the right to feel like the victim in any part of this!

“I want you to tell me the truth!” Yuuri demanded, and made an effort to keep the anger from his voice if only for the sake of privacy. Already some of the other patrons looked miffed at their raising voices, though a few peered at them with something closer to curiously. “Stop lying to me, Murata. You told me Shinou’s magic was gone, you told me there was no way to get back to Shin Makoku!”

“Wrong,” Murata said, and Yuuri forced a frustrated breath through his nose at the dismissal, “I told you that Shinou’s magic was what fueled the portal. With him gone, it stands to reason that you would have passed through the last.”

“Then how do you explain what happened?” Yuuri hissed, “Wolfram was here! It wasn’t a dream, Murata, the clothes I gave him are gone!”

“Perhaps just misplaced,” Murata suggested, and without even thinking Yuuri clenched his hands into fists and rose from his seat. The squeak of the chair’s legs against the floor was sudden and grating.

“Listen to me!” Yuuri demanded, practically shouting, the force of which silenced the chattering of the other customers around them at once. The fury that had risen to strangle him abruptly died, leaving him and Murata staring at each other with equally stunned expressions. The entire café seemed to hold its breath.

An annoyed barista began the walk over. Mortified, Yuuri shakily dropped a large tip on the table and rushed from the café. Murata followed at a more sedate pace.

The walk from café to nearby park was tense and quiet. Yuuri didn’t even spare Murata a glance as he sank miserably into the first park bench they passed and dropped his head into his hands. The emotions were clawing up through his chest again; mortification and shame for his actions, but with persistent regret and anger—white hot and coming in waves between the helplessness and self-loathing. It felt a little like when he was taken over by the Maou, overwhelmed and ragged and raw and so full of emotions he knew were his but still felt out of place.

“Please,” Yuuri said, and knew he must look a spectacle; a grown man half dressed in a suit hunched in misery while excited children screamed and pranced just feet from him. He felt older than twenty-four, aged by grief and regret, by burden and a crown he hadn’t worn in years. “Tell me the truth.”

Murata’s weight settled beside him. 

“I didn’t want to give you false hope,” his friend said, after several quiet moments.

Yuuri looked up at him so fast he felt a little dizzy from it.

“But?” he pressed, all too eager, and Murata sighed. 

“Honestly, Shibuya,” Murata said. The smile on his face was lopsided, proof that he was cracking, but his eyes were clearly still conflicted. Yuuri leaned forward and grasped his friend’s arm firmly, imploring him with his eyes.

“Murata, please,” he whispered, and didn’t care that he sounded desperate. 

“You really love him.” There was no judgement in Murata’s voice. No question about how, seven years later, Yuuri could possibly still be hung up on a boy he’d done nothing but deny. Yuuri hadn’t even told him the details about their encounter, had never given clear words of his feelings for Wolfram to another soul before he’d spoken them to the boy himself, just days ago. 

He hadn’t had to.

Yuuri drew in a shaking breath and blinked at tears he hadn’t realized had gathered in his eyes.

“I do,” Yuuri said. It was so unlike him to be so forthcoming about his emotions, but he needed to convince Murata of his sincerity. And, besides, there was no point denying the obvious.

Something like pity crossed Murata’s face, or maybe it was more complicated than that. It looked equal parts regretful and miserable too, a clear reflection of the feelings Yuuri still felt clawing at him. 

Then it was gone, hidden away as if it had never been there at all. Not for the first time, Yuuri wondered about the enigma that was Murata Ken: The Great Sage, whose past lives no doubt haunted him but who kept their secrets guarded close to his chest.

“You defeated Soushu,” Murata said, face turned away to look at the fountain that merrily burbled ahead of them, “your power should have been greater than even Shinou’s in the aftermath. Once you had time to recover, I anticipated you would have the potential to make your own way between worlds, but you’ve never shown even a hint of your former power since we returned. I assumed it depleted somehow, or at least sealed. How Lord von Bielefeld made it to this world, I cannot say for certain. My best guess is your powers are finally being released again, and somehow your will brought him here.”

“But I’ve tried to open the portal for years,” Yuuri admitted, heart racing, “it’s never worked for me before.”

“It’s possible there are other magics at play as well,” Murata shrugged, “or perhaps you simply haven’t quite gotten the hang of it yet. As I said, I can’t know for sure. I’ve never lived in a time without Shinou, and have no access to tomes of magic in this world.”

Yuuri finally released the arm he’d been clinging to and sat back against the bench.

“But you’re saying it’s possible to go back?”

“I’m saying that I don’t know,” Murata admitted, voice surprisingly gentle, “but not to rule it out. You ought to practice with your majutsu. For all we know, it took seven years for your maryoku to replenish. It might be false hope, but…”

“But there is still hope,” Yuuri finished for him. The smile that pulled his lips was quavery, but determined.

Murata tipped his head back toward him, lopsided smile back in place.

“Yeah, Shibuya. There’s hope.”

It was more than Yuuri had had in years.

  
==  


Keeping the pregnancy a secret in the first few months proved a greater challenge than Wolfram had expected. Foolishly, he’d anticipated lack of abdominal growth all it would take to dissuade suspicion, but there were other damning signs.

Nausea was the most persistent symptom, and his was so terrible and unpredictable he found little bases for triggers other than his own changing body. More than twice a day, he found himself weak from the retching, and often publicly. It was humiliating and uncomfortable, and brought worried looks from castle staff and those at court alike. 

Hushed, worried rumors found home at the castle as if at once—that their Maou had fallen ill and weak. It was precisely what the secrecy was meant to deter, and Wolfram soon found himself on Gisela’s bed again, Gwendal stiff as a gargoyle at his side. It was difficult to be so vulnerable around his eldest brother, but Gwendal had silenced his protests with a firm, chilling look. 

“Can’t we do something about this nausea? Rumors already persist. Should they even begin to nod in the right direction—”

“I understand your concern, Lord von Voltaire,” Gisela said, clearly not at all intimidated by his presence, “I have a potion that may help, but it is not to be overused. Secrecy is all well and good, but not if it harms bearer or child. Wolfram’s weakening constitution is a concern that must be treated seriously, not merely covered up.”

Wolfram’s hand found itself on his flat stomach as it roiled again.

“Should I be concerned?” he couldn’t help but ask, “Will the baby be okay?”

“Nausea isn’t enough to worry me yet,” she assured him with a small smile. “So long as you rest and maintain your diet, I am confident it will pass. But I intend to regulate your use of the potion. A few extra sessions of healing majutsu might be enough to calm your stomach.”

Wolfram watched as Gisela’s hands glowed green agin. It did help to calm him somewhat.

“Would my own healing majutsu help?” It had been long since he’d studied the craft, but Wolfram had had a good hand for it. Julia had once told him he could have had a future in it, and had overseen his studies herself, though in the end he’d chosen the sword.

“Healing majutsu isn’t as effective on oneself, as you know, because of the energy it drains, but for something as minor as this I believe it might.” Gisela sat back in her seat and offered him a smile. “And if it doesn’t you know where to find me.”

It wasn’t only that nausea that plagued him; already his breasts felt tender, enough that he’d had to alter his dress somewhat, and though Gisela and the cooks regulated his food, a good portion of it became unpalatable nearly overnight. Worse, his energy already drained faster, and left him nodding off at his desk with hardly a dent placed into his pile of paperwork most nights.

Perhaps it wasn’t enough for onlookers to point to pregnancy, especially as he had no suitors, but it was enough to make Wolfram fear exposure. Gwendal’s worries made him paranoid, though he had to wonder how much of his brother’s concern was born of stately necessity rather than brotherly overprotection. Still, he trusted his brother’s judgement, even though he balked at the amount of restrictions.

Not even his mother and Greta were to be informed. It left a bitter taste in his mouth; they were the two he longed to tell the most, perhaps the two of his world that most deserved to know. But with them both only reachable by letter, Gwendal feared their correspondence not secure enough. 

Eventually, and with Gwendal’s overseeing eyes, Wolfram sent a carefully drafted letter to both outlining his affection for them and his desire to see them, and made a point to keep the tone as amicable and airy as possible so as to not raise alarm. His mother might read into it and rush to his side anyway, but with her at sea it would take time for her to come even if she suspected something. 

But Greta…even if she desired it, Wolfram doubted her kingdom could spare her yet. All he could do was hope he had a chance to see her before the birth, to tell her in person as she deserved. To tell her about Yuuri, about the love her absent father still held for her. 

He hadn’t told Yuuri nearly enough about her, had been purposefully vague to keep him from regretting too much. Greta was so much older now, and Yuuri had missed out on so much—her growing up, her mastery of horse and sword, her maturity and the love in her eyes as she twirled her wife about the temple and set out on her new life.

It wasn’t fair that Yuuri had missed out on Greta’s life. It wasn’t fair that Yuuri would miss out on the life of their unborn child.

“Wolfram?” Conrart said, voice soft and hand gentle against his arm. Wolfram startled to find eyes unfocused on a document and quill lax in his hand, with tears gathered in his lashes.

“I’m fine,” Wolfram snapped, as he pressed a hand to his face. Conrart rubbed his arm once, but didn’t call his bluff, even when Wolfram shrugged his hand away in a fit of annoyance.

“Perhaps it’s time to retire,” he suggested, but Wolfram tightened his fingers back around the quill stubbornly. His body desired rest, but with his thoughts already bleak he feared he would get just as much in front of his papers as in his big and empty bed.

“I’m not tired,” Wolfram insisted, “and with me retiring so much earlier lately I’m falling dreadfully behind.” 

“Gwendal—”

“Has far too much to do, Conrart,” Wolfram said, clipped. “Already he’s nearly halved my daily allotment, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Then Günter,” Conrart pressed. Wolfram’s mother and daughter didn’t know of his pregnancy, but Günter did. It only made sense, of course, that his inner circle would need to be informed. Though the man often went off on tangents and spilled his own innermost secrets aloud, he had been surprisingly calm in the face of Wolfram’s pregnancy, even with Yuuri the babe’s sire. Wolfram suspected he cried himself to sleep every night to keep his emotions clear and undetected in the daylight, no doubt bemoaning Yuuri’s distance and the fact that only Wolfram had seen him in his fifteen year absence.

“I’m not an invalid,” Wolfram snapped, harsh, though he didn’t dare attempt to meet Conrart’s eyes, “I don’t need my work siphoned off onto others. If I cannot even manage my duties now, how is the next year supposed to go, Conrart? Am I so weak that even now, barely begun, I must be coddled and handled?”

“No one thinks you weak, Wolfram.”

“Then act like it!” Wolfram snapped, “Allow me to finish my work and quit pestering me.” 

Conrart’s conflicted gaze settled on him. Wolfram knew he was acting every bit the bratty lord he’d once been, but he was frustrated; both by his stifling court and his own body. 

“Another few hours,” Conrart finally conceded, “but I must insist you come without struggle when I return.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Wolfram said, with a mocking tone far below his station. Conrart, amicable as always, overlooked the slight.

“I’ll be just outside,” Conrart promised, or maybe threatened, and left the room.

Alone, Wolfram drew in a shaky breath and pillowed his head in his hands. Tears threatened to come again, but he held them back. He was king, and was trained as a soldier. Tears of pity, for himself and his lost love, had no place. As Maou, he was expected to carefully bottle his personal feelings and move on. As a father, he needed to be strong.

Gently, Wolfram placed a hand upon his stomach. At five months, there was still no outward growth, but Gisela assured him it would soon come. Though part of him feared it, another was desperate for it to finally feel real, for the physical reminder that he wasn’t alone after all. It would be easier, he thought, to be strong with the evidence under his hand.

“For you, I will endure,” Wolfram said aloud to the growing fetus, though it was not developed enough to hear him, “and leave wimpy sniveling to your other father. He does it best.”

With that, Wolfram picked up his quill and set back to work.

  
==  


“This is impossible!” Yuuri groaned in dismay and let his body slump forward. The water dish sat completely undisturbed in front of him.

“Sure is with that attitude, Shibuya,” Murata agreed from beside him, tone mild and unsympathetic. 

Yuuri thunked his forehead on the table.

“Oh, that did something!” Murata jeered, and Yuuri turned his head just enough to shoot an icy glare in his direction. His friend smiled back at him with entirely too much mirth, probably enjoying the show. Jerk.

Already he’d been practicing for hours, trying in vain to access his maryoku and cause even a small ripple in the water. So far, he hadn’t had a lick of success. 

“Are you just going to sit there, or do you actually have some advice to offer?”

“What’s there to advise?” Murata asked, and turned back to the smartphone in his hand. He was supposed to be helping but really he was answering work emails and ignoring Yuuri for the most part. 

“I dunno, you’re the Great Sage. The guy with, what was it, _4,000 years_ of life experience?” Yuuri was definitely pouting, but he was tired and grumpy and Murata sucked.

“Sorry, helping a former Maou reforge their connection to their maryoku while in a world where most mazoku can’t even use majutsu has never come up for me before,” Murata said. He didn’t sound very sorry.

“Well, it feels pretty impossible to me!”

“It is,” Murata said, distracted, “with that attitude.”

“So what should I be doing here?” Yuuri picked his head up from the table and directed his childish pout toward the innocent bowl of water. “I was pretty good at using majutsu by the time I left Shin Makoku, but I never really had to learn like this. The power was always just… _there_ when I needed it.”

The power of the Maou… the power Yuuri had always taken for granted. In truth, he hadn’t been very good at using it at all. Sure, he’d been getting better at controlling it by the time he left, but he’d still relied on the guidance of his inner self. 

Wait.

“You said ‘former Maou’. Does that mean… you don’t think… the spirit inside me is gone?” The thought was like ice down his shirt.

Murata put his phone down on the table and sighed.

“Shibuya. After all this time, you really think that form you took was a possession?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Yuuri confessed, “I never thought about it like that, but that power wasn’t something I could really control.”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t you,” Murata pointed out. “Becoming Maou doesn’t automatically grant access to a power like that. That ‘spirit’ was you all along. Perhaps a buried part of you, one that you never understood, but it was you; _is_ you, Shibuya. You’ve always had the power to control it, you just lacked the confidence to believe it so.”

Yuuri swallowed a lump in his throat and turned back to the bowl of water sitting innocently on the counter.

“So what should I do?”

“How did you ever call that form, that power, to you?” Murata asked, like a patient teacher leading a child to an obvious answer.

“I got angry,” Yuuri admitted.

“Emotions are powerful things, Shibuya. Anger is one of the most powerful, yes, but so are sorrow, happiness… love. Perhaps instead of focusing on the act you’re trying to perform: moving the water, you should be focusing on the _why_.” Murata laughed quietly to himself, “Honestly, Shibuya, stop thinking so much—you’re not good at it. Try feeling instead.”

Feeling…it couldn’t possibly be so easy, could it? Well, in any case, it was worth a try. 

Yuuri sucked in a calming breath and held his hands back out to the water dish. 

He stopped thinking about the water as an object to be pushed and manipulated, stopped imagining the water dragons he’d become fond of molding, stopped considering the water a puzzle to be figured out.

Instead, he felt.

Felt his sorrow; for leaving Shin Makoku, for abandoning his people, his allies, his friends; for a goodbye that could barely be considered one at all. 

Felt his happiness; the specific happiness he only felt while riding Ao, sun warm on his skin and Conrad’s steed at his side, the happiness he felt when Günter praised him and Gwendal nodded in approval, when Yozak showed up at the nick of time. 

Felt his love; for the castle, for the land, for the little girl who eagerly pushed books into his hands only to read them aloud to him from his lap, for the boy who quietly chided him afterwards that the father ought to be reading to the daughter; the people he missed so much it hurt—Greta and Wolfram.

Hardly paying attention to the dish at all, it took Yuuri a moment to realize something vital: the water had moved. 

In the next moment, the water was still again. Yuuri’s forehead thunked against the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to add a note that... I know Wolf and Yuuri are both coming across very OOC in this fic, but I hope that their changes seem believable. I just couldn't see either of them staying the same after so long apart and with the drastic changes in their lives. Wolfram is trying very hard to be someone he isn't, because he thinks that's what he needs to do to stay true to what Yuuri created, and buckling under the strain after so long. Meanwhile, Yuuri has let regret take over his life and is so frustrated with himself he's started lashing out where he might not have before. 
> 
> Anyway, I realize they aren't the same as they were when they were younger, but it was a conscious choice and I hope it doesn't grate too badly on anyone! And I hope everyone has been and continues to enjoy this story. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> \- Trans pregnancy things, most notably nausea and vomiting.  
> \- Saralegui... he deserves a warning, I think.

Wolfram was seven months pregnant when the change began. The mirror confirmed his suspicions: just a small swell of his abdomen, the barest bump, but solid as Wolfram cupped a hand around his own naked skin. Wolfram gazed at it in awe, lips parted and shaky fingers gently rubbing at his firm abdomen. Finally, there was a physical embodiment of his baby. Yuuri’s baby.

He imagined Yuuri in the mirror behind him—inches taller, skin tanner, shoulders broader, hair shorter. The Yuuri he’d seen seven months ago had been all that and more, handsome and mature but still recognizable with his piercingly black hair and eyes. His eyes had been a little less wide and naive, but still so kind and beautiful. Wolfram imagined them watching him in the mirror, imagined that Yuuri would have wrapped arms around him to settle a hand—larger than Wolfram had remembered but warm and secure—to rest atop his on the new swell of flesh.

Fifteen years ago they would have been too young to consider conceiving, but Wolfram imagined Greta younger anyway, smaller hands joining theirs as she laughed in delight and asked how much larger he would get and how soon she would be able to meet her sibling.

Wolfram smiled.

His uniform would soon need to be let out, or else replaced entirely. Wolfram wasn’t sure how they would possibly keep his pregnancy a secret for much longer with the cut and style needing to change as often as it soon would. By his twelfth month his stomach would more than likely be impossible to hide at all.

But that was a detail he would allow Gwendal and von Christ to figure out. Wolfram had other things to worry about.

The black uniform he wore as everyday dress was more elaborate than Yuuri’s had ever been: white undershirt accented with ruffled sleeves and formal collar, the black material of the jacket overtop just as fine as Yuuri’s ever was but inlaid with gold filigree down the arms as a nod to his Shinou-golden hair, matching golden epaulettes as testament to his military career and a jabot to flaunt his status, pinned in place by a delicate jewel-laden chain. The outfit was purposefully extravagant, at first an easy excuse to turn heads in his direction and prove to anyone who might not have heard that there was finally a new king. Years later, it still stuck, and Wolfram desperately missed his more simplistic military uniform.

Despite its clean lines, the swell of his stomach wasn’t quite enough to make the rich fabric strain yet. Wolfram scrutinized his clothed abdomen in the mirror for several extra minutes just in case, twisting his body every which way to ensure the illusion of flatness was upheld.

This was going to be his reality for the next ten months, or at least until the secrecy was ended and the announcement made. 

Not for the first time, Wolfram felt crushed under the weight of his situation. A child out of wedlock was exactly the sort of thing the Ten Aristocrats would eat him alive over. The timing was terrible, with Shou Shimaron’s thinly veiled threats and Dai Shimaron an ever-looming monster. The last thing his country needed was a scandal, or any ammunition in the hands of forces that may already see Wolfram as unfit. As the Ten Aristocrat’s chosen, Wolfram had suffered under their scrutiny and expectation his entire reign.

Wolfram knew that finding a suitor and marrying him off was something Gwendal and Günter had considered and discussed, nevermind his own personal feelings, but Wolfram was more than confident a double black half-mazoku would be impossible to find to make the ruse believable. If the child was born anything other than black-haired and black-eyed, it would be a miracle.

But despite the challenges it would create, and the excitement and confusion it would cause, Wolfram hoped the baby would take after Yuuri after all. 

It was a selfish desire. He knew all too well what it felt like to live in someone else’s shadow. Wolfram’s own appearance was a curse, a reminder of a king his people revered as a god. Yuuri, as Shinou’s last chosen and Soushu’s destroyer, had nearly been elevated to that same status. The child, taken after Yuuri in appearance, would undoubtedly sympathise with Wolfram’s struggle. Perhaps they would even resent their sire for it; for his absence and his striking looks and impossibly large shadow.

Wolfram curled his hand around his stomach protectively.

“You’ll love your father,” Wolfram promised aloud, because he couldn’t bear anything less, “you’ll know his love and his light because I will keep them alive for you.”

A knock at the door pulled Wolfram from his thoughts and wrenched his hand away from his stomach.

“Your Majesty,” Conrart said from the doorway, “an urgent letter awaits you in Lord von Voltaire’s office. Please allow me to escort you at your convenience.”

Wolfram squared his shoulders and swept from the room with as much kingly grace as he could, even as he felt his heart sink with dread.

“Lead the way, Lord Weller.”

==

“King Saralegui wants to come _here_?” Wolfram practically sputtered, rather ungracefully, as he lifted his head from the letter. The look on his face was complicated, equal parts confused and annoyed.

Gwendal sighed and rubbed at his temple. 

“It seems Saralegui feels that our peace talks with his ambassadors were not an accurate enough representation of his feelings,” Günter replied from his space at Wolfram’s side, “Or, at least, that is what he claims.”

“What does he have to gain by coming to Shin Makoku? We’ve entertained his empty correspondence for months already. Representatives are one thing, but the sole ruler coming himself? He’s placing us both under Dai Shimaron’s scrutiny.”

Wolfram was right. Gwendal had thought the same when he’d read the letter himself.

“We’ll need to treat this situation delicately,” Gwendal finally spoke, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his desk, “Saralegui’s intentions are unclear, and that makes him dangerous.”

“Could he really be seeking peace?” Wolfram asked, wide green eyes seeking something from Gwendal’s face. Gwendal knew his brother was not unintelligent, and fifteen years as Maou had turned him into a far more subdued and cautious person, but the thinly veiled hope in those eyes reminded Gwendal suddenly of King Yuuri: young, naive, and entirely too trusting.

“Doubtful,” Gwendal said, “He more likely hopes to exacerbate the tension between Shin Makoku and Dai Shimaron. If Shou Shimaron allies with us, Dai Shimaron could declare war.”

“But if we refuse, who knows how Shou Shimaron will twist things,” Wolfram muttered. Gwendal nearly smiled. Wolfram was not nearly as naive and blinded by hope as Yuuri had been.

“Of course, ordinarily Shou Shimaron has little sway. Dai Shimaron is still the stronger nation, and in the end Shou Shimaron must obey them. But Dai Shimaron has been seeking an excuse to raise its war banners against us for decades. We can’t rule out Langille declaring war over Saralegui’s minor struggle no matter which way our own allegiance falls.” Günter sighed, dramatic, and plucked the letter from Wolfram’s fingers to review for the tenth time.

Saralegui of Shou Shimaron was a snake, and Gwendal knew not to trust him. He’d been Shou Shimaron’s king nearly twenty years, but Gwendal had heard little about him other than the fact that he’d inherited the crown young. The lack of information was the worst part; too many variables left their defences weak.

Even Yozak, hidden as a spy in Shou Shimaron for the last few months, hardly had anything to report. It seemed that even the gossip about King Saralegui in his own country was thin and based more on speculation than anything else, as he rarely left his castle.

They wouldn’t be expecting Saralegui for another few months, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Gwendal eyed Wolfram as discreetly as he could. His youngest brother’s uniform hid any evidence of the fetus, but it wouldn’t for long.

Gwendal shared a look with Conrart over Wolfram’s shoulder. His own anxiety was clearly reflected in his brother’s eyes, though hidden where a different man would overlook it. Though he hadn’t shared all of his concerns aloud, he knew Conrart understood: among other nightmares, they would need to be prepared for the possibility of a staged attack. Whether against Saralegui or Wolfram, the results would be devastating.

“We have no grounds to deny the request,” Günter said, voice far away as if he was already planning for the king’s arrival, “at least none that we can admit to. We’ll have to increase security, plan for the talks, perhaps throw a ball? How much attention should we be giving to this meeting? We don’t want to draw too many eyes, but if Saralegui feels insulted from a lack it would only strain things further.”

Günter’s eyes were glazed, his hand to his mouth. Wolfram just looked exhausted.

“We’ll adjourn for now,” Gwendal said, “Saralegui has at least granted us enough time to plan and prepare.”

With a quick nod and distracted bow to Wolfram, Günter swept from the room, still muttering to himself and no doubt itching for his planning book. 

Wolfram swept the bangs from his face in an attempt to hide the way he briefly massaged his brow. Gwendal would need to have a talk with Gisela about his health.

“I have paperwork to do,” Wolfram said, “Send for me if you hear anything else.”

“Wait,” Gwendal called, standing from his desk. Wolfram turned to him mildly. “There should be enough time for a quick goodwill visit to Zorashia in the weeks before Saralegui arrives. Should you desire it.”

Wolfram’s eyes widened slightly. His hand lifted to his stomach briefly before it was forced back to his side. Gwendal noticed, but said nothing of it.

“Now is hardly the time for me to leave Shin Makoku,” Wolfram protested, though weakly. His eyes were pleading, at odds with his words.

“Better now than later. I can deal with the preparations in your stead.”

A fond, fatherly smile lit Wolfram’s face. Greta had been gone for nearly a year already, and her absence had left a deep, lasting wound Gwendal feared would never heal.

“Thank you, Brother,” Wolfram said. He already looked lighter. Conrart flashed him an approving smile over Wolfram’s shoulder.

Gwendal waved him away and turned his eyes back to his desk, lest Wolfram’s soft expression compel too genuine a reaction of his own. He knew Wolfram would understand anyway. And besides, he had much to prepare for while Wolfram was away.

==

Zorashia truly was a beautiful country. Though still a far cry from what it must have once been, Wolfram could plainly tell that its former splendor was being dutifully and lovingly uncovered every day by teams of happy, hopeful citizens. Just riding the once-destroyed streets was enough to make Wolfram smile. His own problems seemed small in the face of such destruction and repair and hope, and the genuine welcome he and his entourage received from the townsfolk made his heart a little lighter.

Though he was having trouble with other human nations, this one welcomed him with open arms. Yuuri would have loved to see it.

He would have loved to see Greta more. Though she was queen, she had replaced her elegant gowns with sensible trousers and wore her hair up and out of her face, as hands-on in the rebuilding process as any of her citizens. Wolfram was so unbelievably proud of her. Yuuri would have been more proud; he’d taught that lesson by example after all.

“The castle hasn’t been fully repaired,” Greta explained as she led him and his guard through the halls of her castle, which had been cleared of debris but were rough and torn where structure wasn’t a necessity, “we’re focusing most of our efforts on the town. But you’ll love the garden, Papa! Mama Cheri sent me off with seeds and they’ve been flourishing. It’s so nice to have a little piece of Shin Makoku here with me.”

Wolfram smiled and let himself be led by the hand, as if she was still ten and eagerly dragging him to a surprise picnic she’d helped the maids lay out for them. 

The garden truly was wonderful, the blossoms as vivid and familiar as the ones at home. His mother had spent much of her time pollinating the most beautiful flowers she could, and Wolfram saw each one in his daughter’s garden.

A sea of yellow and blue and red and purple and pink brought life to the bones of the castle grounds, and made even the rougher areas feel light and hopeful. It was beautiful, a true reflection of life in the face of destruction.

They stopped in front of a smaller bed of flowers, where only three types grew: the ones his mother had named for him, Yuuri, and Greta. The yellow and pink flowers complimented each other well. He had had a similar arrangement planted in the gardens at home, once Yuuri’s and Greta’s flowers were created. He thought Yuuri would have liked to see them together too.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, and when he turned his eyes to meet Greta’s, there was a smile on her face and just a small flash of that familiar worry in her eyes.

A glance at Conrart was all he needed to ensure their guard out of earshot, and then Wolfram was pulling her hands into his and spilling his secrets: about Earth, about Yuuri. Greta clutched him back just as fiercely and listened with rapt attention. Wolfram’s heart felt lighter talking about a memory of Yuuri that was still fresh and relatively untainted by grief and time.

“He couldn’t ask about you enough,” Wolfram said, and Greta’s eyes sparkled, “He’s so proud of you and misses you most of all.”

There had always been a part of him that worried Greta didn’t remember much about Yuuri. She had only been ten when he’d left after all, though Wolfram knew developmentally she’d been closer to mazoku fifty. Still, he had made it his personal mission to speak about her absent father as much as possible while she was growing up, no matter how much it had hurt. As a result, she certainly knew enough in an objective sense at least. But how much did she remember? 

Yuuri’s likeness was proudly hanging in the castle, his deeds recited and praised even fifteen years later, but did she truly remember his love? His light? The way he had twirled her in the air and played with her in the courtyard? Greta kept that secret close to her heart. Perhaps that was why she worried about him so—her father who never could seem to forget even a single detail.

But Greta smiled earnestly as he spoke, and asked eager questions when his speech lulled and Wolfram felt his burden lighten slightly.

It was only when Greta had heard and asked her fill that he admitted the last: a baby. His baby. Yuuri’s baby.

The hug she pulled him into was crushing, the face she pressed against his was damp from what he hoped were happy tears. Wolfram pulled her close and basked in her acceptance and love.

“How much longer until I get to meet them?” she asked, in the same sort of excited voice he’d previously imagined, and Wolfram surprised even himself by laughing.

==  


King Saralegui arrived at Blood Pledge Castle when Wolfram was well into his tenth month. Despite the advanced warning, Wolfram hardly felt prepared as he waited in the courtyard to receive the king’s carriage, a task he perhaps needn’t do but that Yuuri always had. Even after so many years, Wolfram followed in Yuuri’s footsteps wherever he could.

At ten months, Wolfram was beyond the halfway point of his pregnancy, and already his stomach had swollen so much he’d had to have his entire wardrobe replaced. The new cut of his uniform was much more modest, with fabric still rich and ornate but more plentiful and arranged to hide his shape and cover the swell in its entirety, though he knew it couldn’t do so forever. 

The castle staff gossiped about it, of course, because they found even the mundane important enough to gossip over, but the rumors over his new conservative dress (“Just in time for summer! What is His Majesty thinking?”) were thankfully covered up rather quickly by King Saralegui’s imminent arrival. By the time his carriage was pulled beyond the castle gate, the human king was all anyone had been talking about for days.

King Saralegui had been crowned young. Wolfram had heard that the man inherited the throne at the age of fifteen, interestingly the same age Yuuri had been when he’d too been crowned, and had ruled for the last two decades without much conflict. Shou Shimaron’s last altercation had actually been with Shin Makoku, back during the war and then as skirmishes over the boxes. Then, they’d been on opposite sides of the battlefield. Now, Saralegui’s face as he descended from his carriage was mild and unworried. Now, King Saralegui was a man of thirty-four, though Wolfram noted he looked surprisingly young for a human of that age. 

As he approached, Wolfram sized him up: long, nearly platinum blonde hair well groomed and pulled into a low tail, undoubtedly expensive finery hidden by a white travel cloak despite the heat and a peculiar set of purple-tinted glasses perched upon a regal nose. There was no denying that he was handsome and well bred, though Wolfram’s gaze did not linger with interest. 

Even at first glance, something about Saralegui was off-putting. Perhaps it was just the serene smile he wore as he stopped in front of the welcome party, unbothered even while in a kingdom that had once been his enemy. Wolfram was annoyed to note he had to crane his neck up slightly to meet Saralegui’s tinted eyes. Saralegui only seemed to smile wider as he realized the same.

“You must be Maou Wolfram!” Saralegui exclaimed, before either of them could be properly announced, and stuck his hand out so suddenly Wolfram almost grasped his sword. A small movement at his side proved Conrart had had a similar reaction.

“King Saralegui,” Wolfram acknowledged, voice tight and smile painfully forced as he reached to take the offered hand; a strange human custom, but one he’d seen Yuuri do often enough and engaged in before himself. Saralegui used his free hand to cover Wolfram’s, effectively trapping him in place. Conrart took the smallest step closer when Wolfram stiffened.

“Ah, your country is truly a marvel,” Saralegui said, unperturbed by the suddenly tense air wafting from Wolfram’s guard. The tone of his voice seemed more genuine than the smile on his face, but even that was unnatural, “its beauty is even greater than the stories would suggest.” 

Saralegui’s smile thinned slightly. His head tipped down, just enough for the glasses on his nose to slip until the color of his eyes was barely visible. Golden as spun thread, and piercing as daggers, they held Wolfram in place as readily as the hands trapping him. 

“Though I must admit,” Saralegui added, in a much lower and more intimate tone, “the tales of your beauty were the ones I most desired to confirm for myself... _Maou Wolfram_.”

In the next moment, Saralegui’s golden eyes were hidden again by his glasses. Wolfram closed his mouth and cursed himself for having been caught gaping, undignified and unbecoming of a king. His hand was too warm, and the pressure surrounding it was beginning to make him feel trapped, but Saralegui held firm. It was only when he tried to pull it back himself that Saralegui at last released him.

“Thank you, King Saralegui,” Wolfram finally managed to say, and hoped it didn’t sound quite so strangled to his guest as he forced himself not to wipe his hand on his trousers. For now, Saralegui was neither friend nor foe, and Wolfram refused to show him weakness or open rudeness.

“Oh, please,” Saralegui said, still smiling, “King this and Maou that, all this formality will leave us hoarse by the end of the evening. Call me Sara, and I hope you won’t mind if I call you Wolf in exchange.”

Wolfram minded very much. He desired to wipe that unnatural smile right off of King Saralegui’s too-perfect face and send him straight back to Shou Shimaron for his nerve. But that was not what Yuuri would have done.

“Of course not,” Wolfram said. His smile felt even more forced as he added, “Sara.”

“Oh, splendid!” Saralegui cheered, and clapped his hands together in an overdone show of pleasure, “I am so excited to see your castle, Wolf. Will there be a tour?”

“Yes,” Wolfram managed, “though it was planned for the following day. Your journey was long and you must be tired. Please, allow my men to escort you to your rooms where you might get comfortable until dinner.”

Saralegui seemed disappointed for a moment before he hid his own hesitation behind another perfectly bland smile.

“Then I will look forward to your company at dinner,” Saralegui finally conceded and nodded to the tall, intense man at his back that Wolfram assumed was his shadow.

“Until then,” Wolfram said, disgustingly pleasant. Without further dallying, he turned back to the castle and forced himself to return at a controlled, steady pace despite his unusual desire to sprint away from those purple-coated eyes.

He felt them on him from the moment he turned his back until Saralegui was finally out of sight.

  
==  


Yozak slipped into the castle half an hour after Shou Shimaron’s entourage. Perfectly timed as always, he ducked between scurrying maids and frazzled stablehands who had undoubtedly been busy since the young king’s arrival—tending to his horses, transporting his luggage and preparing his welcome dinner.

With all the excitement, Yozak’s presence was easily overlooked, and he arrived at Gwendal’s door without so much as a second glance from anyone but guards that recognized him. As he entered, all but the king himself greeted him: the inner circle of Voltaire, Christ, and Conrart turned tense eyes to him the moment the door was opened. Attention like that always made Yozak uncomfortable, and he lifted his hands in mock surrender as he toed the heavy door closed behind him.

“The boy king got us on our toes already?” he asked in good humor, though he didn’t actually think anyone else would appreciate his lighthearted attitude. Gwendal’s furrowed brow was really all the confirmation he needed anyway. Though it was Conrart’s that really made the reality of the situation sink in. He whistled and added, “That bad?”

“Worse,” Christ lamented, in that awfully dramatic way he preferred, “King Saralegui—”

“ _Sara_ ,” Conrart muttered darkly from Christ’s side. Yozak raised his brow in surprise at the frigid tone from his usually mild captain.

“King Saralegui’s intentions are becoming clearer to me now,” Christ continued, as if he was a stage actor and not the king’s personal tutor and trained guard, “and they are undoubtedly far from earnest. The way he held the king’s hand at first meeting, the informal address!”

Wuh-oh, that couldn’t be good. Yozak looked between the brothers, and noted the over-protection in hard, narrowed eyes at once. King’s guard they might be, but they were insufferable siblings too. Yozak felt for their young king, who had always worked so hard for his independence. As king, he was allowed none.

“So Saralegui’s already flirting with the kid?”

“Heavens!” Christ gasped.

“Yozak,” Conrart warned.

“King Saralegui is a cunning and conniving rat,” Voltaire hissed, “The fact that he was so bold while in the presence of Wolfram’s guard, on the very steps of the castle within moments of meeting him, was a clear message. I have no doubt he entered this castle with a specific and ill-advised plan, and it is one we absolutely must be prepared for.”

“So which one am I tailing?” Yozak practically sighed. No rest for the wicked indeed.

“Saralegui.” Voltaire’s voice was even more clipped than usual, his eyes narrowed as if daring Yozak to complain. No doubt he hated the foreign king with an unmatched passion already for so much as glancing in his precious littlest brother’s direction.

“Gotcha.”

Luckily for them, Yozak hadn’t managed to get too close to the human king while snooping about in Shou Shimaron and was thus unlikely to be noticed if he passed for a guard or maid. But which would get the better reception from the human king’s entourage? Yozak did always appreciate an excuse to wear a nice dress, but he might turn too many heads while in his own home court.

“What do you know about his guard: Berius?” Conrart asked and Yozak scratched his cheek in thought, pulled from budding fantasies of the dress he’d been wanting to use for his next covert assignment.

“Not much. Saralegui doesn’t exactly welcome outsiders to his castle. From what I heard, the guard is a silent shadow who will do literally anything his king asks without hesitation.” 

‘A lot like you’, Yozak didn’t add. Conrart eyed him as if he had.

“He’s dangerous?” was all the captain asked.

“Very.” 

“Then keep both eyes on them,” Voltaire said. His frown lines had frown lines. Yozak resigned himself to yet more nights of stilted, if any, sleep. And here he’d been hoping for a night or two alone in the comfort of his own bed. Or maybe not so alone. 

Yozak chanced a look at Conrart. With peacetime upon them, it had been relatively easy to convince his captain to take a break and a romp during his visits, but that had all changed once they learned of Wolfram’s pregnancy. Conrart’s devotion to his family was something Yozak admired and admittedly envied, but his captain had been remarkably uptight for nearly a year already as a result. The two eldest brothers probably needed a night of relaxation the most of anyone in the castle, but Yozak could already tell it would be a waste of time to proposition either of them. Not that Yozak had eyes for Voltaire or a desire to be bludgeoned for his efforts, but it was a true shame about Conrart.

“Now,” Voltaire said, in a clipped tone that implied he could read Yozak’s less than decent thoughts and had no patience for them, “Report.”

==  


Dinner that night was an elaborate affair, befitting a meeting of two kings and their respective entourages, with a menu selected especially for their guests and entertainment provided in the form of a string quartet that would play throughout the meal.

In the end, von Christ had settled on something showy to appease their guests but not so formal that anyone not already at the castle would need to be invited. That left more room in the hall for guards, of which Wolfram instantly noted there were more than normal. It still felt overdone, and would require more energy than Wolfram felt he had to spare, but he had to concede it could have been far worse.

Already, Wolfram was yearning for the silence and comfort of his bed, though he refused to yawn openly as he stepped through the banquet hall. Conrart undoubtedly could read the exhaustion on his face and in the way he held his shoulders, but Wolfram hoped his brother would be the only one. Pregnancy, he was finding, was nothing to scoff at, and though his nausea was not quite what it had been in the early months, he was not so fortunate when it came to body aches and energy reserves. If only he had time to rest in the day.

Wolfram swept past most of his dinner guests; nobles already visiting court, his own normal retinue, as well as Saralegui’s dignitaries and guard. Saralegui was respectfully standing at the table to acknowledge his arrival, just beside Wolfram’s own seat, and as Wolfram approached the visiting king pushed his chair back so suddenly it squealed against the polished floor. Wolfram hardly had time to blink before his arms were grasped by Saralegui’s firm hands.

“Oh, Wolf, I’m so glad you arranged this dinner,” Saralegui said, seemingly completely oblivious to the fact that Conrart and his own guard had both nearly unsheathed their weapons and that all other discussion had quieted. “What little I’ve seen of your castle has me positively riveted, I simply cannot wait for the formal tour.”

Wolfram unclenched his jaw only through sheer willpower. 

“Thank you for your praise, Sara. I am just as eager to show you about the castle.”

Saralegui smiled and released his arms, appeased. Wolfram continued to his seat with as much grace as he could muster.

“Thank you for joining me in welcoming our esteemed guest, King Saralegui of Shou Shimaron, to Blood Pledge Castle." It was hardly a welcome speech at all, but Wolfram was tired and desired his seat too much to add anything else other than, "Please, enjoy your meal.”

As one, the guests sat and dinner commenced. Wolfram noted that Conrart and Saralegui’s shadow, Berius, both remained standing at their backs.

Formal meals were an unfortunate part of court, in Wolfram’s opinion. There was a certain expectation for conversation, and navigating the usual rules while trying to maintain dignity and grace with food in one’s mouth added a new layer of annoyance that he didn’t care for. 

Seemingly unperturbed himself, Saralegui appeared determined to talk and steal Wolfram’s attention through the entire meal—asking questions about Shin Makoku, probing for information about their tour, prattling about his trip, and commenting on the menu as each new course was set in front of him.

Much about Saralegui put Wolfram on edge. Even the eager way he spoke and questioned, which at first half-reminded Wolfram of Yuuri with his endless curiosity and ignorance, seemed calculated with enough time to ponder Saralegui’s intentions. He was doing a fine job of making himself seem harmless, portraying a king who carried no sword and who acted informally even as a guest in a foreign land, but there was something about him that felt measured even while he seemingly let down his guard. 

Wolfram didn’t doubt for a moment that Yuuri would have fallen for it. He would have seen Sara; weaponless, beautiful, with wide eyes and a serene smile, and yearned to protect him and the truce he claimed to seek. 

Some part of Wolfram struggled in an attempt to feel that way, to embody Yuuri’s naiveté. Did Saralegui truly deserve his ire and distrust? Was he overreacting, uncomfortable with displays that had less to do with malice and more to do with cultural ignorance? Of course he knew not to trust openly, knew that there were people with bad intentions no matter how much Yuuri had refused to believe it. But if Yuuri was there, he would have given Saralegui a chance. He would have smiled easily, and left the distrust to his nagging fiancé.

Could Wolfram leave the distrust to Conrart and Gwendal? Could he expect that everything would work out if only they all tried hard enough? He tried to loosen up his stiff shoulders and smooth the sharp edges of his smile. Saralegui was still prattling on, remarking about the wonderful architecture of the hall and the artful decorations and rather skilled quartet. Wolfram hummed his agreement and volleyed where he could between modest bites of his meal and decided he would try as hard as he could to give Saralegui the benefit of the doubt, no matter what his instincts screamed at him. It was what Yuuri would have done.

Saralegui seemed to notice the minute change in him. The smile the human king flashed him seemed more open, wider, and when a round of plates were cleared away he rested his chin in his hand and stared openly at Wolfram’s face. Wolfram flushed at the attention despite his efforts to seem unaffected.

“You truly are beautiful,” Saralegui said, and Wolfram had to force himself not to look away, “Excuse my saying so, but I’m shocked to find you without a spouse or suitors.”

Wolfram couldn’t find the right words. Rather than flounder, he brought his drink to his lips and took a sip. Saraleui’s smile widened, almost predatory—no, perhaps he was just amused at the redness of Wolfram’s cheeks.

“My fiancé—” Wolfram finally began, hesitant and uncomfortable.

“Oh, I heard about him,” Saralegui trampled over him before Wolfram could continue, “Maou Yuuri, wasn’t it? I was so intrigued by him. He was crowned as young as I, and was a half-human on the throne of Shin Makoku despite the political climate at the time frowning upon them. It was his ideals to unite humans with mazoku that first caught my attention.” Saralegui twirled the wine in his glass absently, “I admit, I originally wished to meet _him_ , and only waited so long to approach Shin Makoku out of fear that his ideals would not be upheld. But you’ve surprised me most pleasantly, Wolf, by continuing where he left off.”

The smile on Saralegui’s face seemed genuine enough, but something about his eyes—Wolfram forced the thought from his head.

“King Yuuri’s ideals were shared between us,” Wolfram said, “He was my fiancé and I’ve done everything in my power to lead Shin Makoku exactly where he wished.”

“Was,” Saralegui emphasized suddenly, leaning on the hand that supported his head casually despite their formal attendance. He placed his wineglass back down without looking away from Wolfram’s face, “Maou Yuuri _was_ your fiancé. I hear he was lost to us more than fifteen years ago, now. Do you stay unwed in his honor, or has no one else dared step into his shadow?”

Wolfram itched to take another sip of his drink, or perhaps pour the goblet over Saralegui’s perfectly blond head. Saralegui was pinning him with his purple-tinted eyes, staring innocently as if he hadn’t just asked an outrageously inappropriate question aloud for anyone at court to hear. It was malicious, it was sending alarm bells ringing shrilly in his ear—it was potentially innocent, witless flirting from one who perhaps was not good at it. 

Before he had come up with a response, the door to the hall opened with a flourish, and Wolfram flinched despite his insistence not to show weakness.

Lady Cecilie von Spitzweg swept into the room, looking dazzling in a low-cut dress and elaborate jewelry. She had hardly been announced before she all but ran to Wolfram’s side, an excited smile on her face and hair cascading after her like golden waves.

“Oh, Wolfie!” She cried, despite the throng of guests that gaped at her. Wolfram stood from his seat and was enveloped in a crushing hug he could hardly respond to with his mind so blank from shock. He had just enough sense to angle his abdomen away before his face was crushed to her chest. “You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to get home. I’ve been trying for months, but the weather was atrocious and I was forced to port every other week! And you know I simply must explore every port town the sea takes me to. You never know what love awaits you, it’s always important to follow fate where she leads.”

Cecilie pulled Wolfram from her bosom and smiled at him, the kind of smile that appeared easygoing and bright but that hid motherly concern. Her parenting style left much unsaid, but her meaning was always bright in her eyes. Wolfram smiled back at her, but he could tell she didn’t like what she saw.

“Welcome home, Mother, I had no idea you would be joining us this evening. The main course has already been cleared away, but—”

“Oh, please don’t stop the party on my account!” Cecilie waved at the staff that were hurrying over to provide her a plate. “I believe I’m just in time for dessert. Please, allow me to intrude right where you left off.”

An extra seat was provided at the table, to Wolfram’s other side, and Lady Cheri made a show of kissing first Wolfram’s and then Conrart’s cheeks—disturbing Conrart from his duty and only passing on Gwendal because of how far away he was sitting, surely—before sitting down with a sigh of content. It was only then that her eyes found Saralegui, sitting opposite her at the table.

“Oh, and who is this? You simply must introduce me, Wolfie! Such a handsome man at court demands attention.”

“Mother, this is King Saralegui of Shou Shimaron. Sara, this is my mother: the 26th Maou, Lady Cecilie von Spitzweg.”

Lady Cheri eagerly reached her hand across the wide table, standing to do so in a way that accentuated her bosom and made Wolfram look away with a flush of embarrassment. Saralegui seemed taken back for the first time, and Wolfram wished to laugh but didn’t allow himself the pleasure as finally Saralegui took the offered hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Cecilie.”

His mother took her hand back and flashed Saralegui a sultry look.

“The pleasure is all mine, Your Majesty,” she practically purred.

“I see where Wolf gets his good looks from,” Saralegui said, and flashed him a smile. His mother’s eyes found him as well, brows raised in interest—no doubt at the nickname. She knew well how little interest he had shown anyone since Yuuri’s departure, and was undoubtedly intrigued by Saralegui’s open flirtations. He flushed, even though he knew she would take his red cheeks the wrong way.

“Handsome _and_ charming, I can see we’ll have our hands full with you!” She winked, eying Saralegui as if he was the dessert of the evening. “My Wolfie certainly is the most handsome Maou to ever rule, his looks matched only by mine of course.”

“Mother,” Wolfram weakly protested.

“Of course,” Saralegui agreed easily, “the two of you could be twins.”

“Your Majesty!” Cheri practically giggled, and pushed dishware away so she could lean further across the table without dignity. “Is there a lover waiting for you at home?”

“We were actually just discussing marital status,” Saralegui said, and casually cut a piece of the cake that had been set in front of him with his spork, “I noted with surprise that Wolf is unclaimed, considering his great beauty and power. Though, I must admit, neither am I.”

“A man as handsome and charming as _you_ , Your Majesty? You don’t say!” Cheri threw a wink at Wolfram, and he blanched. “You’re right in assuming my dear Wolfie is unwed. But,” she added, whilst peering across the table through her dark lashes, and pushing her bosom up with her arms, “so am I.”

Saralegui seemed thrown off again, though he hid his expression with his napkin under the pretense of modestly nibbling his cake.

“What a shame for us all,” he finally said, blandly.

“Or not such a shame,” Cheri added, practically a purr, and finally took a bite of her dessert. The way she placed the spork in her mouth was positively obscene. 

“ _Mother_ ,” Wolfram admonished, mortified. His own cake was untouched. Strawberry was ordinarily his favorite, but the subtle smell of it suddenly threatened a return of his dinner. He pushed it away as discreetly as he could, torn between saving Saralegui from his mother’s clutches and allowing her to continue occupying the human king’s attention for his own sake. Dinner had been long and he was tired of conversation and flirtation. The return of his nausea and ever-present exhaustion just made everything worse.

In the end, he let her continue without much complaint. She eventually turned the conversation to her adventure at sea, the lovers she had played with in particular. Saralegui seemed completely out of his element in the face of her exuberance, and Wolfram let himself be amused at the sight of him floundering. 

Finally, the last of the dishes were cleared away and Wolfram could declare the night concluded. He rose from his seat gratefully and bid his guests good night with as much energy as he could spare. But as he made to step from the table, Saralegui’s hand caught his.

“Wolf, I know the tour is scheduled for tomorrow but I do so yearn to see the gardens. I’ve heard much about the exotic flowers that grow in Shin Makoku and the night is still young.”

Wolfram bit the inside of his cheek and struggled to keep his composure.

“Sara, I’m not sure...”

“Oh, a walk about the gardens?” Cecilie eagerly joined them at the other side of the table, “how lovely! Won’t you allow me to accompany you, Your Majesty?”

Saralegui’s hand tightened around Wolfram’s just enough to draw his attention, nearly possessive—perhaps just uncomfortable. Lady Cheri did have that effect.

“Of course I would enjoy your company, Lady Cecilie,” Saralegui smiled, but it was aimed at Wolfram, “but would so love if your son would join us as well.”

Saralegui tipped his head down, a mockery of a bow. His glasses slipped down his nose.

“Please, Wolf, won’t you join us?”

Something about those golden eyes seem to make everything else fall away. It might have been like the feeling he sometimes got when looking into Yuuri’s eyes—when nothing else mattered save for those black eyes and the kindness they held, when everything else fell away because nothing else could possibly demand his attention more than the timid smile on his fiancé’s face. It might have, if not for the fact that something about the situation felt unnatural and uncomfortable—as if he was lightheaded and yet strangely heavy, under the influence of wine Gisela had forbid he drink.

“Of course, Sara,” Wolfram said, before his sense could catch up with his mouth. “I would love to.”

“Splendid!” Lady Cheri cried and hooked her arms with both young monarchs, completely ignoring the way Saralegui’s guard, Berius, tensed. 

A nobleman approached before she could lead them away, smiling in the single-minded way men usually did around her.

“Oh, Lady Cheri,” the man greeted with a low, eager bow, “Do you remember me?”

The look on his mother’s face made it apparent she did not, but she dutifully unhooked one arm and held her hand to the man with a smile anyway.

“Could anyone forget such a handsome face?” She cooed, practiced, “I would love to stay and chat, but I’m currently entertaining our most esteemed guest.”

“Please, Lady Cecilie, do not trouble yourself for my benefit. Wolf and I will await you in the garden.” Saralegui looped his arm around Wolfram’s free one and practically pulled him from his mother’s hold.

The nobleman stepped between them at once, already talking animatedly and no doubt attempting to lead her from the clearing banquet hall. Wolfram caught the anxious look in her eye before he was pulled forward by Saralegui’s insistent arm. A surge of annoyance forced his feet still, and he secretly delighted at the surprised look Saralegui turned to him when their joined arms tugged.

“Wolf?” Saralegui asked, “I’m sure she’ll be just behind us.”

Saralegui was a snake, leading him to a trap. Saralegui was—potentially just eager to spend time with him; a sovereign who was close to him in maturity and appearance if not numbered age. By Yozak’s own accounts, Saralegui hardly left his castle and his attendants were all much older. And, Wolfram had heard, he had no surviving family. For a boy raised to be a king without ever knowing a true friend or playmate, Wolfram should excuse eagerness. It was what Yuuri would have done.

“Of course,” Wolfram said, and forced himself forward. The smile Saralegui gave him was dazzling. “Allow me to lead the way.”

==  


Conrart followed his brother and Shou Shimaron’s king as the two meandered through the halls towards the garden. He kept his pace even and his face as neutral as he could, ever mindful of Saralegui’s shadow following in perfect step at his side, though he desired nothing more than to wrench Saralegui’s arm from his brother and demand their guests leave at once.

All night he’d watched as Saralegui attempted to be charming, batting his lashes and flirting unabashed like a young man struggling through puberty and unmindful of decorum. That he dared do so in a great banquet hall while surrounded by Wolfram’s court screamed his intentions, like an animal attempting to lay claim to its territory, or perhaps its meal.

Conrart hated Saralegui all the more every time he laid hands on Wolfram, always grabbing and pulling as if he had the right to him. There was violence there, hidden as friendship, and Conrart simultaneously praised his own self-control and hated himself for it. 

Wolfram from years ago would never have allowed himself to be handled in such a way, would have kept his head up and his boundaries clear through sharp glare and sharper words. But Maou Wolfram forced his feet into Yuuri’s ill-fitting shoes wherever he could, hacking off the parts of himself he deemed too rough to fit. Conrart hated to see it, and hated himself for allowing it to happen. Perhaps it was his fault, for missing Yuuri as much as he did in the wake of his godson’s departure, for seeing Wolfram’s changes as growth and maturity instead of self-mutilation.

Either way, the results were the same: Saralegui, arm looped with Wolfram’s, daring to touch and lay claim and demand of Wolfram what Conrart knew he didn’t want to give. Conrart could see the exhaustion on his brother’s face and in the slump of his shoulders. It was so apparent Saralegui would have to be blind to overlook it himself. But he saw it as plain as anyone else, because this trip and their linked arms were not friendship. Saralegui was the snake they had all suspected him to be, and Conrart knew he was just biding his time, leading Wolfram into a trap. It would have to be a trap Conrart was ready for.

At least, he thought as he followed his king, this was their home court. Gwendal had undoubtedly sent guard ahead to the gardens, and Yozak was following at a discreet distance. He wasn’t the only one looking out for their king, though Conrart noted Saralegui came accompanied only by his shadow. That confidence kept Conrart on edge.

“Oh, Wolf, it’s beautiful!” Saralegui crooned from in front of him as they stepped into the glass-covered garden. With the sun setting, the natural light was dim and the flames used to supplement the stars cast everything in warm yellow and orange. Saralegui pulled Wolfram’s arm closer to his body, practically clinging to it as if he was a demure lady taking a stroll with her intended. Conrart clenched his fingers into fists.

“Yes, the garden is quite lovely at dusk,” Wolfram said mildly, “My mother puts much of her efforts here.”

Berius didn’t react to the garden at all, Conrart noted, instead his gaze swept about like a shadow’s might, looking for exits and danger. Conrart’s own eyes travelled the length of the garden, searching for anything hidden or out of place.

A sudden squeal drew his attention immediately and his hand to the hilt of his sword, but it was only Saralegui, who finally released Wolfram’s arm to lean over a patch of flowers. His long blond hair fell over his shoulder like a curtain, and when he reached to displace it as he glanced over his shoulder, the action was entirely too flirtatious to be anything but calculated. Conrart’s lip nearly pulled in displeasure, but he kept himself in check.

The two kings were talking about the flowers. Berius was eying Conrart with an intensity that put him on edge; undoubtedly he was well aware of Conrart’s hand on the hilt of his sword. Though it pained him, Conrart forced his hand away. Berius didn’t relax, and Conrart locked eyes with him for several heartbeats—too many. He needed to watch Wolfram, his hand practically trembled with the desire to tear his eyes away. But Berius seemed just as tense, hands just as eager for his blades and eyes for his king. 

He felt like a guard dog staring at another, each poised to attack. The first one to move would be the one to tear the other’s throat between its teeth. 

The talking seemed quieter, farther away. Though there was an enemy in striking distance and it would leave him vulnerable, Conrart tore his eyes away. 

Saralegui and Wolfram were much farther away, and getting further still. Conrart felt his heart skip, and made to pursue them, but movement at his side forced his attention. Berius was stepping forward to intercept him—a trap, he’d known there would be one and he had fallen into it anyway, had left his king alone with a man unknown, had left his pregnant brother defenceless with an enemy.

Conrart grabbed the hilt of his sword.

The sound of flesh striking flesh was so sudden and so loud it seemed to echo about the space. Conrart’s eyes desperately sought Wolfram—alone, vulnerable, precious—and his breath caught at the sight of him.

Wolfram stood a ways from him still, eyes wide and a hand cradling his left cheek. Saralegui, hand still poised, looked entirely too pleased with himself. Conrart saw red as a small trickle of blood oozed from between Wolfram’s stiff fingers. The faint light caught the ring on Saralegui’s outstretched hand.

All was silent and still in the wake of the proposal. 

Finally, Wolfram took a hesitant step back. Spell broken, Conrart pushed past Berius, who seemed less inclined to keep him away now that the damage had been done.

Saralegui took a step closer, robbing Wolfram of the distance he sought. Conrart gnashed his teeth together and forced himself not to run lest Berius change his mind.

“Please say yes, Wolf,” Saralegui said, head tilted down as if he was still that demure lady strolling about the park and not the vile snake that had just struck Wolfram’s cheek. Wolfram seemed like a mouse, eyes wide as they locked with Saralegui’s; like prey before a hunter.

“Sara, I...” Wolfram practically stuttered. It was so unlike him, wrong in the worst way. Conrart increased his pace when Saralegui took another step closer, bringing himself so close to Wolfram they were practically touching.

A man tripped into view and upended his goblet on Saralegui so suddenly Conrart would have been thrown had he not recognized the bright hair and dress.

“Oh, my!” Yozak exclaimed, with so much more feeling than was normal for him, as he made a show of bowing. Saralegui was drenched, his white robes stained red with wine. The human king sputtered, eyes flashing dangerously as he was pulled from his prey. Wolfram startled, as if he had just been woken from a dream, and Conrart took his arm and pulled him away from the scene the moment he was near enough. 

Berius rushed forward to deal with his king as Yozak gushed fake apologies, but Conrart was focused on the way Wolfram’s arm shook in his grasp.

“Conrart,” Wolfram practically croaked, voice weak. Conrart’s heart clenched painfully.

Günter rushed forward in a flair of robes from some corner of the garden, wailing about staining and reprimanding Yozak’s incompetence as he made a show of shooing the spy away.

“Please, Your Majesty, allow me to escort you to the bath!”

“I was in the middle of something,” Saralegui insisted, his voice suddenly petulant as his eyes sought Wolfram’s. “Wolf—”

“Go get cleaned up, Sara,” Wolfram said, voice carefully measured, though his eyes were downcast, “We can discuss the night’s events tomorrow when we meet.”

Saralegui pursed his lips and then smiled sheepishly. It looked quite fake.

“Of course, Wolf. Thank you for your unending hospitality and kindness.” Saralegui tried to come closer but Conrart kept himself between them.

“You are our honored guest,” Wolfram said. His voice was hollow and his arm still subtly shook in Conrart’s hold.

“I will eagerly await our next meeting,” Saralegui nodded his head in a small bow, and moved the hand he’d struck Wolfram with to his chest as if to flaunt it before finally Günter ushered him from the garden and down the hall.

It was only once they were out of sight that Wolfram reacted, a sudden hitched breath that he’d undoubtedly tried to stifle. Conrart itched to pull him into an embrace, but the garden was still public and Wolfram still his king. 

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Conrart finally spoke, voice quiet.

“I would like to retire,” Wolfram said, in a voice so soft Conrart hardly heard it. 

Before he could even attempt to lead Wolfram away as he wished, Gwendal was there, eyes hard and mouth pressed into a thin line.

“My office,” was all he said, in a tone that left no room for argument. Wolfram squared his shoulders and pulled his arm from Conrart’s hold, standing on his own with what he meant as kingly grace but that, to Conrart, seemed more like a small child attempting to be strong in the wake of a bloody knee.

As the three of them trudged through the halls of Blood Pledge Castle, Conrart kept his eyes on Wolfram’s back and frowned at how narrow his bowed shoulders actually were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should preemptively apologize so: I'm sorry.
> 
> Also, I've been trying to update every two weeks or so but the next set of chapters may take a little longer, since I have less pre-written now and a bit less free time. I'm still toiling away at it though and will try not to take too long!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Trans pregnancy things, most notably nausea and vomiting.  
> \- Mentions of premature birth.

Five months after Wolfram tore his world apart, Yuuri found himself sitting in front of the water dish. It had become part of his daily routine, as ingrained as brushing his teeth: wake up, check the tub, get ready for the day, double check the tub, go to work, come home, triple check the tub, lackluster meal for one, long bath, replace the water in the tub, sit in front of the water dish until fatigue forced him to bed, rinse, repeat. 

He hadn’t watched baseball at all in those five months, too busy being consumed by his own obsessive practicing to so much as turn on his T.V. Doing anything he enjoyed felt like giving in, as if not spending every free moment trying to harness his power was a moment he was turning his back on Shin Makoku, or giving up on Wolfram. 

His team lost the tournament. He only knew because Murata told him, as if reprimanding him for focusing so hard on trying to get back. 

The water in the dish moved easily now, twirling about the bowl or molding into small water serpents that curled in the air, but the energy it drained was outrageous. Seven years ago, he’d been able to create storm clouds, to defeat beasts and men alike with a thought and a tidal wave out of nowhere. Now, he was left tired from a tiny dish of water.

But he was getting better, controlling it for longer. And, really, he never needed a big pool of water to move between the worlds. A toilet bowl was enough, a puddle—maybe even a teacup after all.

After nearly five months of practice and frustration, Yuuri did what he always did: sat in front of the innocent water dish and begged it to let him through. Not with his words, of course—not aloud anyway. He folded his hands together and tipped his head forward and thought of Shin Makoku, remembered slipping between the worlds and the familiar rush of power it always took. He thought of Gwendal and Cheri and Yozak, Conrad and Greta and Wolfram. He begged and he _yearned_ for the open fields, the castle, the flowers, the kohi and bearbees, for his godfather’s patient smile and his daughter’s bright eyes and his fiancé’s steady warmth.

It was always like this. He’d move the water around for a while, for a little longer than the day before, and then, in a moment of desperation, he would clasp his hands together and beg the water to let him through. It never worked, but he tried anyway; pleading with the water dish, or maybe with the long-dormant part of himself he’d never fully believed was really him, or maybe even Shinou—as if he wasn’t dead and finally gone.

It was the same as every other day. Only, on that day, something peculiar happened: after minutes or hours of begging and pleading and reaching, he felt something nudge back. 

It was almost like feeling someone reach out for his hand, their fingers slightly brushing against his, only it was at his very consciousness. He gasped at the sensation and then gawked as the water began to swirl. 

Yuuri leaned in, eager, breath caught in his throat. His fingers reached, trembling slightly in fear and anticipation and awe and wonder.

A harsh knocking at his front door broke his concentration. The strange other consciousness retreated. The water stilled.

Yuuri gaped; stunned, bordering on devastated. He stood, hands clutching the water dish and mouth working silently as if he could will the foreign power back. The knocking continued at his door.

Something in Yuuri broke. He stomped to the door and wrenched it open with force, fully intending to angrily reprimand whoever was on the other side for disturbing him.

Shori stood in the doorway, hand still poised to knock. When Yuuri replaced the solid form of the door, Shori brought the same hand to his face to push his glasses back instead. Yuuri’s annoyance flared hotter, but he kept himself from yelling through sheer willpower.

“Yuu-chan,” Shori greeted, sounding nonchalant even though he’d just been knocking on Yuuri’s door as if there was a fire in the hall. Yuuri felt the sudden desire to slam the door in his brother’s face, but stopped himself. His mother would throw a fit when Shori inevitably tattled.

“Shori,” he said, practically gritted between his teeth. Shori’s brows raised as if in surprise.

“Is this a bad time?” Shori asked, though he didn’t look sorry to have interrupted at all. 

“Yes, it is,” Yuuri said, and hoped that would be the end of it.

“Do you have someone over?” Shori’s eyes trailed beyond Yuuri’s shoulder, into his apartment. Yuuri closed the door a little more, suddenly self-conscious under his brother’s scrutinizing eye.

“No.”

“Then you won’t mind inviting me in,” Shori said, and forced his way inside as if he owned the place.

“Shori!” Yuuri sputtered when he was brushed aside, as if he was still a teenager trying to keep his brother from his bedroom. He closed the door quickly and followed Shori inside his apartment, annoyed at the intrusion.

“Call me Big Brother, Yuu-chan,” Shori said, but his eyes roved over Yuuri’s meager apartment appraisingly, as if it might have changed from his last visit. Shori’s gaze lingered on the mess he’d let accumulate, but finally seemed to settle on the water dish sitting innocently on Yuuri’s dining table. The intense focus made him even more self-conscious.

“Why are you here, Shori?” Yuuri asked, patience thin and undoubtedly coming through his voice. Shori finally looked at him, frowning as if he didn’t approve of something.

“To talk some sense into you,” Shori declared, and marched up to the water dish. Yuuri watched as he picked it up, only to upend the contents into the kitchen sink.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Something about watching the water drain away, the same water that had just started to become a portal for him mere minutes ago, forced Yuuri to his brother’s side. He snatched the dish from Shori’s hands and glared, heart pounding. 

“We need to talk, Yuu-chan,” Shori said.

“You need to leave!” Yuuri said, and clutched the stupid dish to his chest.

“I know what you’ve been doing, Yuu-chan. Your friend told me everything.” 

Yuuri snorted. “Since when do you talk to Murata?”

“Since he noticed how obsessive you’ve become. You spend every waking moment trying to get back to Shin Makoku, don’t you? Mother hasn’t heard from you in weeks. Your boss tells me you’re distracted at work—you’re letting this affect your performance!”

“You talked to my boss?!” Yuuri demanded, affronted.

“You certainly weren’t talking to me! It’s my job as your brother to take care of you, Yuu-chan.” Shori’s eyes were hard, his mouth pulled into a frown.

“I’m an adult, I don’t need you to take care of me!” 

“It looks like someone needs to! When’s the last time you did something fun? The last time you went on a date?”

Yuuri let out a noise of frustration. It was always ‘go out’, and ‘find someone’, and ‘move on’ with Shori. Well, he was tired of going out to the same places! Tired of finding people who could never possibly understand him! Tired of trying to move on when it was impossible! Didn’t anyone care that he had tried? Didn’t anyone care that he was tired of it?

“I don’t want to go on a date, Shori!” Yuuri said, voice raised in frustration, “I want to go home!”

The next moment was silent. Shori regarded Yuuri with something like surprise as Yuuri realized exactly what he’d said.

‘Home’ had always been Earth, even when he’d been in Shin Makoku and surrounded by people he cared about. Somewhere along the way, it had gotten twisted, until even while sitting in his parents’ house with his family around him, he was homesick for a different world entirely. But he’d never let himself say those damning words aloud to even himself, let alone his family.

Yuuri lowered his head, suddenly not sure he could stand to look at his brother’s face. The water dish was cold and hard but he clutched it like a security blanket anyway.

“You are home,” Shori finally said, words firm, after another few moments of stifling quiet, but it was pointless. As pointless as when Wolfram had said those same words nine, then eight, then seven years ago, whenever Yuuri yearned for Earth. Yuuri had listened to him say those words and had still turned his back on Shin Makoku. 

“I need to go back.”

“You aren’t their king anymore,” Shori pressed, “You don’t owe them anything. It’s been seven years already, it’s surely been longer over there. You have a job here—friends, family! You’re safe here, you belong here. _This_ is your home.” Shori’s voice was steady, but there was underlying hurt there.

“You couldn’t possibly understand,” Yuuri said, head down and hands desperately clenched around the empty water dish.

“Look around you, Yuuri!” Shori said, voice raised as he swept his arm out. “Have you ever tried to be happy here? You’re right that I don’t understand, but neither do you! Ever since you came back from that world, you haven’t even tried to move on. How many new friends have you made over the years? What was your longest relationship—three months? Four?” Shori sounded accusatory, his words so sharp they cut, “What, in this entire apartment, did you buy for yourself because you liked it? You stopped living at _seventeen_ , Yuuri! This obsession with the other world isn’t healthy, you need to move on!”

Yuuri clutched the water dish to his chest and fought to keep the emotion from his face. Maybe, some traitorous part of him whispered, Shori was right. Maybe he’d never really tried. Maybe he’d regretted coming back from the very moment the portal was sealed behind him, and had just stumbled through the rest of his life on autopilot in the aftermath. 

But he didn’t want to move on. Maybe if things were the same as they’d been five months ago, he could take Shori’s advice and try harder; get a partner he could stand to date longer than six months, hell even just get a cat or a plant— _something_ to actually tie him to his apartment and this world. But now that he knew Wolfram was still waiting for him—that the other world hadn’t just given up on him—that was impossible.

“The water was moving, Shori,” he said, and finally lifted his pleading eyes to meet his brother’s. “I know I can go back.”

He probably looked ridiculous and pathetic the way he was standing in his dining area, shoulders slumped, peering up at his brother through bangs that had grown long from neglect, wearing his crumpled pajamas and clinging to a water dish as if he was a child with a well-loved toy.

Shori looked at him with something akin to pity bright in his eyes.

“Yuu-chan, you’re letting your life pass you by. Why are you so obsessed with that world? It’s dangerous there! You’re not their king anymore, you won’t have anyone there to protect you. This is where you belong, this is where your family is.”

“I have a family there, too, Shori. I don’t care if it’s dangerous, I don’t care if I’m not their king. I love them.”

“What about us?” Shori said, suddenly sad, “Don’t you love us, too? What will you do if you can never come back to Earth again?”

Yuuri didn’t want to think about that. He couldn’t let the possibility of another one-way trip distract and discourage him. But...the last time he had mindlessly gone through a portal, he’d spent seven years hounded by regret.

“I have a daughter there,” Yuuri insisted, partly for Shori and partly to remind himself of his own conviction, “and a fiancé! I just left them there. You think I like needing to pick one over the other? You think I like having two families in two different worlds?”

“We both know he was never really your fiancé, Yuuri!” Shori sounded frustrated again, as if Yuuri wasn’t seeing reason, as if he was talking nonsense and everyone knew it but him, “And a daughter?! You left when you were seventeen! That family you’re so hung up on was just make-believe!”

Yuuri didn’t wait to see if Shori regretted his words. Instead, he spun on his heel and stomped to his front door and wrenched it open, glaring at his brother through a haze of bitter tears.

“Get out,” he hissed, when Shori made no move to follow him.

“I’m not leaving,” Shori said.

“Get out!” Yuuri screamed. The faucet behind Shori groaned, and then there was water spraying into his apartment. Shori looked startled, stunned, eyes wide as they snapped back to Yuuri’s face.

Part of Yuuri felt bad for yelling. Part of Yuuri was panicked at his own display of power. A bigger part of Yuuri was angry—betrayed and bitter and so very tired of trying and failing to fit in and forget. 

“Yuu-chan,” Shori said, voice soft.

“Just leave,” Yuuri said. He was suddenly exhausted, but whether from his own emotions or the power he’d just used, even he wasn’t sure. “Please.”

Shori looked like he was about to protest again, but the moment passed. He walked out of the apartment.

“Give mother a call. She misses you,” Shori said. Yuuri let the door swing closed without responding.

Then Yuuri was standing alone in his apartment. The water was still spurting from his kitchen faucet, and he rushed over to stop it with a quiet curse. The silence afterwards was oppressive and stifling. While the sink struggled to drain, Yuuri filled his empty water dish and returned to his spot at his small dining table. The chair was wet, but he slid into it heavily anyway.

“Please,” he said aloud that time, hands clasped together and eyes squeezed shut against the sting of tears, “Please, let me go back. I want to go back.”

The water didn’t move, the portal didn’t return. He was alone.

==

Though Wolfram did an admirable job keeping composed as they walked the halls of the castle, the door to Gwendal’s office was only just within sight when suddenly he stumbled. Conrart caught his arm instinctively, but violent heaving forced him to lower Wolfram to his knees as his brother retched the contents of his stomach onto the stone floor. Dinner had been long and, though Conrart had silently fretted over the way Wolfram merely picked at his food all evening, there was much to dispel. After awful minutes of upheaval, Wolfram’s face was wet with bitter tears and his breathing unsteady. 

A glance at his older brother proved that Gwendal’s murderous eyes had gone cold with concern. Conrart saw much of the weakness their youngest brother pretended didn’t exist, but Gwendal was rarely confronted with such damning evidence. This was by design, of course, for Wolfram expended so much of his energy trying to remain as put together as possible when in Gwendal’s presence. Either out of respect for Wolfram, or from a desire not to watch, Gwendal left to fetch a healer himself.

When Gisela finally joined them and demanded Wolfram get cleaned up and into bed immediately, there was a silent understanding that the meeting would be conducted without their king, and that Conrart would arrive late. They would trust no one else to lead their brother through the castle, with the snake still residing within their walls.

The walk was tense and quiet. Conrart might have liked to prod his brother into opening up, but it was clear Wolfram was not up for discussion and Conrart was set too on edge to try. He focused on Wolfram’s back and the empty halls for as long as their journey took.

“I want to be alone,” Wolfram said when they arrived at the Maou’s bath. His eyes were hollow, his voice hoarse from his throat’s abuse. The last thing Conrart wanted was to leave Wolfram alone as he desired, but he allowed his brother the privacy to break down with a small nod of assent only after confirming the room’s emptiness twice for his own peace of mind.

“I’ll have someone check on you shortly,” Conrart said. Wolfram didn’t acknowledge he’d spoken at all as he shut himself away.

It was with a heavy heart that Conrart positioned a few of his most trusted men outside Wolfram’s bath before finally forcing himself back the way he’d come.

==

Wolfram didn’t bother to remove his clothes. He stumbled into the bath, unmindful of the way the rich fabric was laden by water, and submerged himself fully until he was compelled up by burning lungs for gasping breaths of air. Then he forced himself down again, and then again after that, until he had to support himself against the edge of the tub to keep himself steady as black spots stole his vision.

“Take me back.” His voice broke. His eyes burned; from tears, from bathwater, from bile, it didn’t matter.

“Take me back!”

The water was still.

Wolfram’s next breath was a sob. There was no one there to hear it, and so it didn’t matter if he was weak. He wrapped his arms around his swollen middle and cried like a child, trying in vain to ignore the sting of his cheek and the ache of his throat and the squeezing of his heart.

“Please, Yuuri,” he whimpered. The water lapped around him like a mockery of an embrace. “Take me back.”

It was then that Wolfram felt it. Like a whisper, majutsu brushed against his very consciousness: something quiet and gentle and demanding attention. Wolfram chased it eagerly—but it was gone in the next moment, leaving him feeling more hollow and alone than before.

His heart ached fiercely, but it was just another pain in the face of all the others.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, to join the streaks of water that dripped back into the tub. He leaned against the edge of the bath and let himself break down, desiring nothing more than to escape to a world he’d never belonged to, to the man he loved.

But the water remained still. He was alone.

==

Cecilie allowed herself a small noise of exhaustion only once the door had been gently closed behind her. 

The last hour had been grueling, but though she yearned for her bed, she knew sleep would elude her. All she would be able to do was lay awake and see Wolfram as she had left him: stomach swollen, eyes red, cheeks streaked with tears, hands tight where they clutched her dress. She’d found him asleep in his bath, and had needed a guard to help tear him from the edge of the pool. Even as she’d wrestled to undress him and tuck him into his bed, he’d been inconsolable—babbling and crying in a way that wrenched her heart from her chest and tears from her eyes. It had taken entirely too long to soothe him, and then to lull him to sleep.

“Mother.”

Cheri glanced up, toward Conrart as he approached from the hall. He looked just as exhausted as she felt. The two of them each attempted and failed at a smile.

“Conrart,” she said, and reached for him gratefully. Her children were all so independent and rarely indulged her physical affection, but Conrart stepped into her arms without complaint and returned the embrace steadily despite the guards positioned nearby. He was always the most accommodating, and as she held him to her chest she could feel the stiff way he carried himself, as if to relax would be to break down.

“Come with me,” she said once they had pulled away from one another, “It may be late but neither of us did have a proper dinner. I’m sure there is plenty still in the kitchen.” 

Conrart looked like he might hesitate, so she looped arms with her son and nudged him forward. It didn’t escape her notice how long it took for him to finally tear his eyes from the door.

“Mother—”

“You cannot stand outside his door all night, Conrart,” she said, voice quiet with shared grief. “He’ll need you refreshed tomorrow.” It was a low blow, to use his duty against him, but it was probably the only blow that would work. Her sons were all so stubborn.

At last, Conrart stopped his subtle resisting and followed her down the hall.

“Of course,” he said, but she could tell it took much of his willpower. 

Her sons’ loyalty to one another was her greatest source of pride. So many siblings had trouble getting along—even she had a rocky relationship with her own brother—but though Wolfram and Conrart had grown apart for so many years, the way they were together now made her heart feel lighter and her worries ease. It wasn’t easy to leave them, no matter how frequently she did so, but knowing they were there for each other made parting easier.

The walk to the kitchen was made in silence, the two of them both too worried to make light conversation. It didn’t take much to get plates of food when they arrived, all Cheri need do was wink and they were ushered into a private breakfast nook and offered plates from dinner. The food looked lovey, but it was all so rich and her stomach flipped too much with worry to have much of an appetite.

Neither of them did so much as pick at their food.

“Did you see?” Conrart finally asked, after several minutes of quiet broken only by halfhearted scrapes of their sporks. Cheri could have pondered what he meant by the question, there was much it could have been about after all, but she had a good idea.

“Yes,” she said, and though they were alone she still kept her voice quiet and words vague, “How long?”

“Ten months.”

Cheri released a long breath and nodded. Ten months, she’d left her baby alone and conflicted. She’d suspected his pregnancy long before she arrived at the castle—the letter he’d sent had given her a good idea that something was amiss at least—and though she hadn’t seen the swell of his stomach until much later, her suspicions had been confirmed at dinner. His symptoms might have been easily overlooked by most, but she’d been pregnant three times herself and knew exactly what to watch for.

“Whose?” Perhaps that didn’t matter as much; she’d loved all three men that blessed her with children, but none in the same way as the other, and perhaps none the way society told her was most acceptable. The other parent seldom mattered even half as much as the new growing life.

Conrart hesitated, but only for a moment.

“Yuuri.”

Surprise brought her brows up and her lips apart. 

“Is he..?” she couldn’t keep the hope from her voice. If Yuuri had returned, if their relationship was to be believed, then Saralegui’s ill-gotten proposal was hardly a worry at all.

“No,” Conrart said. He sounded pained, “He hasn’t come.”

It left so many questions—how they had had relations at all being the most prominent, but they were not the right questions. Not now.

She sagged against her chair.

“My poor Wolfie.” Was it just his destiny to be unhappy? To have his heart claimed and taken and ripped out and torn apart? Had he not suffered enough; created merely as a key for a box that had demanded his life? The very thought brought tears back to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. It wasn’t Conrart’s job to console her, even though he’d already spent so much of his life doing just that.

She wanted nothing more than to gather her three children to her chest and chase away the boogeymen and the stress that bowed their shoulders and put lines into their faces. She wanted to throttle King Saralegui for putting that mark on her baby’s cheek, for tearing a little deeper into his heart. She wanted to go to this ‘Earth’ and pull Yuuri back by his ear herself, and demand he do right by her too-loyal son.

She would get none of what she wanted.

Conrart was struggling, too. She could read it in his shoulders and the way his hands formed fists, in the untouched plate of food in front of him and the way he looked at the doorway every other minute. Conrart had always declared himself Wolfram’s protector, from the very moment Wolfram—still gummy from birth—had been placed into his small arms. To now be Wolfram’s knight as well as his brother as he watched the injustices pile up at his feet must have been a torture.

Gwendal was the only one who could do anything for him, now. She knew he’d been in meetings since the young human king finally made his intentions plain, nevermind the hour. But Gwendal was the one of them most likely to separate his personal feelings from duty. If Gwendal thought that marriage to Saralegui was best for Shin Makoku—she forced the thought from her head. There was no way that was true, and Gwendal loved Wolfram like he loved few others. He would do what he could to protect him where Cheri and Conrart could not.

“This will pass,” Cheri said, with as much conviction as she could force into her voice. “Everything will be okay. He’ll be fine. We’ll be there for him.”

Conrart’s smile was a shadow of what it usually was; strained and brittle and entirely for her benefit. He was kind, and good, and so self-sacrificing. When Cheri reached for his hand, he squeezed it gently.

“We’ll be here for him,” Conrart agreed. It was all they could do.

==

The Wolfram that pushed his way into the council chamber that afternoon was not the same Wolfram who had clung to his mother and cried the night before. In the daylight, he carried himself with spine straight and shoulders back, expression carefully schooled. He was the king, and knew what was expected of him. Saralegui’s proposal might have broken something already fragile in him, but he would be damned if he showed the incriminating evidence to the man responsible. It was bad enough the entirety of his family at Blood Pledge had seen it: his weakness, his tears.

For all that Wolfram was a king, he was nothing but a child too, weeping because he couldn’t be with the person he loved, splintering because another man dared attempt to lay claim to him. But he’d shattered because of the word that had almost clawed its way from his own throat. 

Was he really so pathetic, that any hand that slapped him would do? 

He’d fallen in love with Yuuri when the new king had been just any hand, too, but Wolfram had been able to fool himself into thinking he’d had no chance against someone as dazzling and unique as Yuuri. But Yuuri was no longer just any hand that had slapped him. His heart had yearned for Yuuri for eighteen long years so why, now that he had finally found hope, now that he had tasted exactly what he’d craved for so long, had he nearly thrown it all away?

He felt sick again at the very thought. Something about Saralegui’s eyes elicited a peculiar response in him, reduced him to a newborn still blinded from birth and completely helpless. He hadn’t wanted to accompany Saralegui to the garden, and had been about to put his foot down, but something about those eyes had stopped him. 

He’d been about to say no to the slap, with firm authority that demanded respect in his own castle—possibly even insult the man for being so bold and insist he return to his own country at once—but something about those eyes had stopped him. 

He’d nearly given in because of those eyes. The nausea afterwards had perhaps been partly related to his pregnancy, but was mainly sickness in the face of that realization—in the face of his own weakness. Were his morals really so loose? Was he really so desperate not to be alone? 

Did he even truly love Yuuri, if he’d had to fight so very hard to deny a proposal from another man? No amount of stewing in the bath or crying into his own mother’s skirts had helped to untangle the mess Saralegui had created in him.

Saralegui stood as Wolfram entered, and flashed one of his bland smiles as he approached. Wolfram kept his face carefully blank, and remained out of grabbing distance as he stepped to the other side of the table. Gwendal positioned himself between them at the table, clearly none too eager himself for Saralegui to touch and for that Wolfram was grateful. The less Saralegui touched, the better. The less Saralegui looked, the better. Wolfram kept his eyes trained on Saralegui’s nose as they greeted one another, and sat in his chair stiffly as the meeting began.

It was the most uncomfortable start to a peace meeting that Wolfram had ever had to endure. The subject of the unanswered proposal from just the night before was on everyone’s minds, and the feeling of Saralegui’s eyes on him made it obvious that his answer was being eagerly awaited. 

Wolfram wished he could be anywhere else. He couldn’t be, so he began the meeting with the usual pleasantries; recapped their past correspondence via letters and representatives, and when it seemed like Saralegui might interject, finally steeled himself and directed his gaze to just below Saralegui’s eyes again.

“On the subject of the proposal: my advisors and I believe it best to postpone a ruling for now. It can be used and discussed as part of treaty, and should that be the best outlet for peace between our countries and their allies, it is one Shin Makoku is not opposed to utilizing.”

Gwendal had grilled him in his office for hours just that morning on the decision: to make no decision at all but to be prepared for the possibility that his hand might one day be forced. It had not been an easy few hours.

Saralegui’s face filtered between emotions; immediate surprise turned quickly to brief frustration, but settled somewhere mild and strangely amused. Wolfram bristled slightly. Nothing about the proposal had caused him even a moment of amusement, and to see Saralegui smiling like that over his reaction filled him with indignation. Did Saralegui not take this seriously? Was he only playing with Wolfram’s emotions because he could?

No. He refused to tumble down that hole.

“I accept your neutral answer, Wolf,” Saralegui finally said, perfectly bland smile firmly in place, “For now, at least. I do so appreciate the seriousness with which you are considering me.”

Against his better judgement, Wolfram let his eyes meet Saralegui’s. He seemed casual, unworried. No, worse: he looked perfectly assured that he would get exactly what he wanted and had no need to rush. Something about his expression, about his confidence, struck Wolfram with a peculiar mix of fear and fury.

He swallowed down his violent protests that he was no prize to be won—that he could and would not be claimed so easily—and wrenched his eyes back down to Saralegui’s nose.

The meeting was long and arduous. Shou Shimaron wanted protection and trade, but had no viable solutions for Dai Shimaron’s inevitable upset. Any sort of treaty would need to be carefully crafted, its details figured out one by one to ensure no toes or current allies were trampled. After an hour of it, Wolfram had pressure building at his temple. Saralegui seemed largely unaffected, and remained so throughout the entire three-hour process.

By the time the delegates at the table stood with promises to meet again the following day, Wolfram felt the familiar pull of exhaustion beginning to tug at him. Or perhaps it was just Saralegui’s hands as he wrapped them around Wolfram’s arm. How he’d come to Wolfram’s side so quickly without being intercepted by either of his brothers, Wolfram could not say. He’d let their presence and his own fatigue distract him, and Wolfram cursed himself for it.

“Is it time now for our tour, Wolf?” Saralegui asked, bland smile still in place as if their nations had not just been bickering over tax and Wolfram had not all but ignored his proposal. Golden eyes sought Wolfram’s, but he quickly looked down at their joined arms rather than meet them.

He opened his mouth to reply, but Gwendal beat him to it with a clipped, “His Majesty has business to attend to first.”

Wolfram straightened, miffed at having been answered for. Breaking down in front of Gwendal the night before had been a grievous error, and he had to wonder how much respect his eldest brother had shed for him in the wake of his tears. 

Saralegui seemed miffed as well: his fingers tightened the smallest bit around Wolfram’s arm, the same way they had when Cheri had come to Wolfram’s aid at dinner, before he released his hold entirely.

“I do hope this business won’t steal too much of your attention, Wolf.” Saralegui said, “I would like to see as much as I can.”

“Of course,” Wolfram replied, blandly, “I can provide an escort if you would prefer to wander the halls while I am indisposed.”

“Oh, no, I would prefer a friend for a tour guide. I will eagerly await your presence in my chamber.” To make the words seem even more lewd and improper, Saralegui caught Wolfram’s hand and brought the knuckles to his lips. 

Wolfram’s mouth dried at once as golden eyes peered at him over the rim of purple-tinted glasses and captured his gaze. 

He’d been caught again—if Saralegui asked something of him, anything of him, he would give it unquestionably. It seemed that Saralegui knew it, too; there was something about his face that made it so painfully apparent they both knew who was in control. Wolfram’s heart constricted painfully, his breath caught in his throat. Several tense moments passed, moments frozen as if both were waiting for something to happen.

Saralegui smiled, slow and wide and eager and predatory. He closed his eyes, practically nuzzling against the hand he had captured, and then at last released him. Wolfram fought not to step back, or clutch his hand to his chest. Instead, he stood frozen, and willed his expression neutral.

“Until then, Wolf,” Saralegui said, and with one last lingering look, swept from the room in a graceful billow of white robes.

Wolfram watched him leave with gnawing apprehension.  


==

Encouraging and supportive and nurturing mother she may be, but Shibuya “Jennifer” Miko was no pushover. Nor was she one to let others handle things for her, particularly not men. Even if those men happened to be ones she raised herself. 

When her Yuu-chan had avoided her calls for a few weeks, she mentioned it to Sho-chan as a way to get the brothers talking again. Her sons were both too self-sufficient, squirreling themselves away from their Mama and each other. Was it so much to ask that they look out for each other, as good brothers ought to? Apparently so.

Shori had failed to get Yuuri to open up. She wasn’t as surprised by that as she wanted to be. Disappointed, yes, but not so surprised. Men were often clueless, especially men who balked at wearing anything feminine as if gender consisted of two separate boxes. 

Honestly, how her two boys had ended up so hopeless was beyond her. It was times like these that she wondered if divorcing Shoma as she had threatened all those years ago would have been a good idea after all—maybe then more of her would have rubbed off on them. But she hadn’t, and she couldn’t regret that decision. She loved Shoma, and she loved her two sons, even if she was constantly surrounded by cluelessness. As a mother, it was her job to set them on the right path.

It was with determination that Jennifer decided to do just that. She marched right up to Yuuri’s apartment while she knew he would be at work, spare key in hand, and let herself in.

The apartment was different than she remembered it, but not different in a good way. Different in a good way would have been new pictures hanging, nicknacks she’d never seen before, a pop of color somewhere, a change of furniture. Different the way it actually was looked more like unwashed counters, piled up dishes, a garbage bag tied up but left behind on trash day, laundry overflowing from its hamper, bathwater left to cool.

Jennifer sighed, hiked up her sleeves, and set to work.

Hours later, the counters were clean, the dishes sorted, the garbage figured out, the laundry done, the bathroom left sparkling and the tub drained. 

The apartment was still depressing, but in its normal way: too clinical, too sparse, with nicknacks collected by family and not the occupant. It did look better with the photos she’d fished out from under Yuu-chan’s bed, arranged on empty spaces with reverence while she tried very hard not to think about the fact that they were hidden but sparkling before, as if Yuuri looked at them every day but still felt the need to stash them where no one else would notice.

She set the charming one of him and Wol-chan beside his bed with a small smile.

It was while the curry was being finished that Yuuri nudged inside with a clatter of keys and eager footsteps that stopped dead almost as soon as they started, no doubt the moment he realized something was amiss.

“Welcome home, Yuu-chan!” she greeted from the kitchen before he could get too worked up.

“Mom?” Yuuri called back, sounding hesitant as he shuffled further in to join her.

“It’s ‘Mama’, Yuu-chan,” she said, smiling brightly as she turned to face her son. The smile was almost wiped from her face, but stayed through her own stubborn will.

Shori had warned her that Yuuri hadn’t looked good, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen Yuuri like that: purple bruises beneath his eyes, face shaven but not cleanly, clothes slightly rumpled, tie knotted as if rushed, hair unusually long with bangs rough and hanging in his eyes. He looked aged, as different in a bad way as his apartment had been. If this was him just returned from work, how did he look on his days off? At least he seemed embarrassed by it as her eyes roved over his dishevelled appearance.

“What are you doing here, mom?” Yuuri asked. Jennifer noted he could hardly stand to meet her eyes.

“Can’t I drop in on my son from time to time?” Jennifer asked, voice bright as she turned back to her work, “You’ve been too busy to return my calls, so I figured my Yuu-chan could use a night off from cooking and cleaning.”

“Did Shori call you?” Yuuri asked, voice mumbling and barely able to be heard over the subconscious shuffling of his feet. “You don’t need to come take care of me, mom.”

“Yes, yes, you’re a grown man and don’t need your mama to coddle you anymore.” Jennifer pointed the wooden spoon in her hand at her son and narrowed her eyes, “But it’s your job as your mama’s son to let her come coddle you sometimes, Yuu-chan! Now, go get cleaned up for dinner and march straight back here.”

Yuuri wisely fled to the bathroom without further complaint.

The sound of the bath refilling made her pause, particularly when he reappeared as soon as it had finished looking more cleanly shaven than before but not at all like he’d had a bath. She remembered her own old habit of keeping the bathtub filled for his travels, and felt her heart constrict a little in her chest. 

Dinner was tense, despite her best efforts to remain cheerful and airy. Yuuri was sullen and withdrawn, and picked at his food half-heartedly. When she asked him about work, about Ken-chan, about how he’d been doing, he muttered half-answers to appease her and hid in the hunch of his own shoulders. 

It was painful to watch, but she let him hide through dinner, let him close himself off to her while they cleaned up, and when he could hide no longer she grabbed his hand and pulled him against her chest. When he tried to pull away, to sputter out assurances that he was fine and didn’t need his mother to hold him, she shushed him until he became pliant against her, until his shoulders were slumped and his head was bowed low enough to reach her shoulder and his arms were tight around her.

Yuu-chan was always so self-conscious about his affections, always feared ridicule despite his own ability to see the best in people. She hadn’t held him so long and so tightly since he was a child, hadn’t felt his tears staining her blouse in as long. But he broke down that night, clinging like a child who had fallen down and weeping like his world had ended.

She didn’t shush him, didn’t assure him it was all okay. It wasn’t okay, not to Yuuri. Officially, she knew only what Ken and Shori had told her; that Yuuri was neglecting himself and focusing too much on things he couldn’t change. But she was Yuuri’s mother. All the evidence of regret, of loss, had been with him for seven years. 

He missed the other world. Perhaps he’d finally come to terms with his own feelings, the feelings that had lit his eyes even when he was fifteen and naive. The feelings that he hid from even himself whenever he talked about the annoying boy from the other world that he absolutely did not want to marry, mom! 

Feelings of regret, of loss, were the sort that could eat you alive if you weren’t careful. It was the last thing her good and selfless and strong Yuu-chan deserved. 

“I want to go back, mom,” Yuuri confirmed, whimpered into her shoulder as if he was ashamed to speak the words too loudly, “Murata should understand but he acts like I’m crazy, and Shori doesn’t even try. I don’t want another one-way trip, I don’t want to leave anyone behind again, but I can’t stop until I go back. I almost had it, the water was moving. He was so close, and then—”

Yuuri’s words broke off with a noise of misery he hid against her blouse. The sound of his hurting heart broke hers in two. She held him tight and stroked his scruffy hair and let him babble and whimper without interruption.

It was only when his words had pettered off and he removed his head from her shoulder that she took hold of his arms and sought his eyes, determination bright on her face.

“You love him,” Jennifer said, with the confidence of a mother. When he just peered miserably at her through his bangs without rushing to deny her claim, she knew she was right. Jennifer smiled and brushed the hair from his face. “Then you can’t give up. I don’t care what Sho-chan says, older brothers aren’t right every time. You and Wol-chan deserve to see each other again, you deserve to be happy.”

“I finally managed to make a portal, but I don’t know what I did differently. I keep trying but I can’t—”

“You _can_ , Yuu-chan. Things happen when they’re meant to. You and Wol-chan are meant to be, I knew it from the moment he introduced himself to us all those years ago. Maybe you’re not meant to be together right now, maybe the water moving was just to keep you from losing hope. But ‘right now’ is not forever. You keep trying, and one day it _will_ be the right time.”

Yuuri looked like he was hanging off her every word, clinging desperately to them because it was exactly what he needed to hear. Jennifer smiled brightly and wiped a stray tear from his cheek. It was easy to say the words he needed because she genuinely believed them, and he must have picked up on her conviction.

“But!” She wagged a finger at him, brought it so close it jabbed into his chest. “You need to take care of yourself. Giving it your all is admirable, Yuu-chan, but if you showed back up to Shin Makoku looking like this Wol-chan would be very unhappy with you! He’s a prince, isn’t he? You can’t woo your prince if you don’t take care of yourself!”

Before he could argue, Jennifer moved back and put her hands on her hips.

“Maybe that means Mama comes over to cook and clean while you’re at work. Or maybe I go home and prepare your old room for you so you can come back, but something needs to change. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you, Yuu-chan.”

A quiet sniffle heralded tears, but Yuuri rubbed them away before they could fall. Jennifer allowed him that.

“Thank you, mom,” Yuuri said, so quiet, so bashful, but he was finally smiling.

“It’s _Mama_ , Yuu-chan,” she said, and met his bright smile with her own.

==

Gisela truly was a force to be reckoned with. Gwendal, having known her for most of her life, could attest to that. As healer she was expected to treat her patients with compassion, but that courtesy was rarely extended after the bone had been set or, he lamented silently, to the family.

“What have I told you again and again?” she hissed, hands on her hips and glare so hot Gwendal imagined he could feel it, “His Majesty is to avoid stressors!”

“He is the king,” Gwendal said, voice as patient as he could make it. Wolfram had just finished his examination and was being whisked off to a mandatory meal before Saralegui’s tour. Gwendal should have been going over last minute preparations and guard rotation, but instead he was being reprimanded like a child by a woman very nearly young enough to be his. He rubbed at his temple. “There are many stressors I cannot shield him from.”

“Well,” Gisela said, without budging an inch, “You must try! Is it really necessary for King Saralegui to be here? Is it necessary to entertain his proposal, to ensure that Wolfram attends every meeting, that Wolfram leads this man across the castle himself despite my repeated insistence that he remain off his feet as often and as long as possible?”

“Yes,” Gwendal said, voice gruff. When he offered nothing else, Gisela stepped forward threateningly.

“You allow your own brother to suffer for the sake of politics,” she hissed, accusingly.

“He is the king,” Gwendal said again. There was anger in his voice now that he could not filter, but Gisela did not back down.

“And?” she snapped, “Kings have children all the time, and manage it in a healthy manner. He suffers because _you_ insist on secrecy! Ten months is far enough for a royal announcement. At the very least, send away visitors. Privacy and secrecy are two different things, and I am telling you that this cannot go on.”

Gwendal raked a frustrated hand over his face.

“What would you have me do? We cannot just send Shou Shimaron’s king away! This treaty must be handled delicately, and informing Saralegui of Wolfram’s ailment would be inviting him to our weaknesses.”

“His Majesty’s constitution frankly worries me, Lord von Voltaire.” Gisela’s fire was still there, but she wasn’t glaring quite as fiercely. There was genuine concern on her face, and it made Gwendal uncomfortable to see. “At ten months, he should not be so quick to nausea. He should be tired, yes, but not to the degree I see. His appetite should be increasing, but the kitchen staff inform me that he has been eating less and less. And I worry about his heart, on top of everything else.”

Gwendal clenched his jaw to keep from interrupting, or perhaps to keep his own worry contained.

“I’ve danced around this topic for months for fear that it would only add to his stress, but now I will warn you plainly.” Gisela’s eyes caught his; firm and imploring and terrible, “If nothing changes, and Wolfram continues to neglect his health and his advisors do nothing to curb his stress, he could well be heading toward premature labor. At just ten months—with the baby only half developed—I shudder to even consider it. If the child survived at all it would be a miracle, and I can guarantee you they would not be born healthy.”

The clenching of his jaw was so painful it was starting to worsen his headache. Gwendal forced his mouth open and clenched his fists instead.

“Whatever you must do, do it,” she continued, “As things stand now, keeping Wolfram pregnant as long as possible must be our first priority. Anything beyond preventing an all out war cannot even be considered secondary—label it tertiary or else forgo it entirely. For his sake and the sake of the child.”

Gwendal’s mind was stuck on the mental image of Wolfram, bloody and inconsolable, of the child, lifeless and lost. They’d all known there were health risks, they’d all been concerned. Gwendal had torn himself apart, stuck somewhere between stately duty and brotherly concern. But his duty was to his king, and losing the child would be devastating. It was devastation Gwendal was not confident Wolfram could carry on from, not after everything else.

He nodded curtly, not quite trusting himself to speak beyond a stiff, “I will do all I can” that clearly did nothing for either of their fears. When he left the healers’ wing, it was with a step too stiff to be natural, and hands so desperate for his knitting needles he was forced to keep his fists clenched tight at his sides lest he mime the action. 

He feared his desire would only grow worse the longer the day dragged on, and was certainly not disappointed as Gunter met him in the hall, worrying about guard placement and escorts. Gwendal could only hope Conrart could handle Wolfram in the meantime.


End file.
